





m 


WINIFRED 


KIRKLAND 


. i 1 . 

•‘■ji',- 

' l ■ ' . ' ■ 


‘ ‘ M 






■*>•< 


• M ’ 


: ! * • • . . , ,' i L 1 i ; • • i ; • h 


• * [ ' * ' i . ' • ' ; M ’ * . 1 • . ; ' j ' * n 


‘ ■ ' ' ' » • V 5 S ^ i 1 f I 1 • • • • * r , ; ■ . I M ! - ■ ••!{»•»/ 

■ ? j ; i I : ; I . i • f J > i w I i 1 j - j ; . . i • . 


. :;■ I h : • >i • * '-r. •.= ' 

) - . ■ ‘ ; I > • 






; j ♦ i ■ ■ i ’ 




. . . ; 1 : 

; < M 


' i •■ . • U ‘ i •' ' t j 4 ' V 1 ' • « ' * M j • 1 1 ' • t ' - ^ » t 

!..: i ! uill} i'S!!' !;;;.,' I)!;-;. 


Miiii HihiiMnm iiii 

i!!jl! I ilpi ! l |!jiii^-;;!!i:i:;!!H;:*i:i 

!!! li! I I IHl! :■ li ..'.MiciMs'imj:.;' 


ii-“ ii ^ 

- U:P:: v ^ * liU !l t f I H iV' i : . 1 ■ - : : ^ ‘ ^ ^ = . ! ; : - : ■ : 




’ ' i i i ; ] ' ; • ■ ; • • ‘ . 1 1 - i * ' L ' . 


i 


L i ‘ 1 ■ ; I 1 1 j ; ; ; • ‘ - 

‘ ' r 'r *- :• 


« , . I ^ 

' ^ . I 


< ‘ ■ 1 1 1 I 

• J * k • I 


‘ 






. . : r • ' 

' : ' M ♦ f ' • ! ‘ ‘ i 1 . ( . ■' ' 

. • n •<'! :i .:- 


■ ' ' ' f 1 ^ \ ‘I'tl 

-i.i ->■“?; "IIP 

■ ■«.:'! ‘ I' '■m'.J '•' 'L.,' '!. *>■.,*'** -I ^ 


• t * ■ PH^ • fc • ~ 'I ^ •• • 

'■■ ^ - J - I *1 , r,’ 'i ' 

' •'*'*»-■* fi .U'vV • J.' ‘f‘,' 

• ‘ 1 I .. in •• 

• •■ ^ . ■ .■ ^ . ' * } f’ * ' > 1 ^ 

• ' ' ' * . * . ^ • *• .'!*•.* : • 






-C^ .-V 


< i _ r. •■ 'i'' •’’^ • V-- - » .V '« 

n^r 






ll.' N - 





Class jP2 3 


Ronk . K i. S 5 q r 

cop^ 0. 

GoipghtN?_ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 


























THE CHRISTMAS BISHOP 





Sometimes, against the dark faces of the house- 
fronts, window shades were rolled up, like eyelids open- 
ing, on home-pictures that reminded the Bishop it was 
Christmas night See page 140 




'tlift (Htfrtotmao ltsi;n|i 


BY 

WINIFRED KIRKLAND ’^ 

*% 

Author of ** Introducing Corinna," **The 
Home-Comers f” etc» 


' ILLUSTRATED BY 

LOUISE G. MORRISON ^ 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright, 1913 

By SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
(incorporated) , 


•K 

^ a 


THE VAIL-BALLOU CO. 
Binghamton, N. Y. 


THE CHRISTMAS BISHOP 


4 ^ 


THE CHRISTMAS BISHOP 

PART I 

C HRISTMAS morning, blue-black, pricked 
with stars against the Bishop's window 
panes. Westbury lay asleep beside its curving 
river, the great old houses with gardens that ran 
terraced to the bank, the churches, the college, 
even the new teeming tenements at the bending of 
the water, all lay asleep in the Christmas dawn- 
ing. The Bishop alone was awake, and against 
the darkness before his eyes pictures raced. He 
had been a poet once, so long ago that when 
sometimes they sang his hymns in church he had 
forgotten they were his, but he still kept the poet's 
trick of thinking in pictures during those strangely 
alert moments between sleep and full awakening. 
The pictures fell into the march of a poem. 

It was a storied city built upon two hills cleft 


I 


THE CH^ISrm^S BISHOP 

by a valley. On the twin crests towered great 
palaces and a temple. Where the hills sank 
toward the north, there were terraced streets and 
narrow climbing byways. There were markets 
and booths and all the signs of multitudinous life, 
but throughout all the place one heard no sound, 
saw nothing that moved, yet one knew that the 
whole city throbbed with the pulse-beats of in- 
numerable homes. A gray pall hung low, as if 
the abrupt Oriental dawn had been arrested; 
the gray dimmed the marble of the palaces, and 
dulled the temple gold. In the silent gloom one 
waited. 

One did not know whence he had come, the 
Child who was suddenly there, in the streets of 
that city without stars, a sacred city once; but 
wherever he knocked upon the portal, quickly 
all within woke to life, and became a teeming, 
bustling household ; again, when he withdrew, all 
was once more silence and darkness. 

He was a tiny child, barefoot and pale, some 
little lost waif from the mountains who had come 
seeking his kinsfolk among the homes. So fast 
he pattered over the pavement that his pale hair 
2 


THE CH^mm^S BISHOP 

and his white tunic streamed upon the wind. His 
little yearning hands stretched out showed fair 
as a baby’s in that wintry twilight. Ever and 
again he knocked and entered, and always, enter- 
ing, his face flamed with hope, and always, com- 
ing forth, he was sobbing, for he found no wel- 
come. 

On and on he went, while each black street 
along which he hurried was stabbed ever and 
again by the opening and shutting of a ruddy 
door. In the silence one heard it plain, the heavy 
sound of a door that closed because it did not 
know him. At length he had passed the city 
portals and was mounting the hill-slope that is 
Golgotha, a form all pale upon the dark, blown 
hair and robe and pattering feet. There the 
Child turned, for it seemed he was the little 
Prince of that city, and all the folk his kin. Ris- 
ing a-tiptoe he stretched out his hands, cross-wise, 
to them in love, and suddenly the sun, withheld, 
leaped kingly above the hills beyond Jordan, and 
the silent air was full of wings and of voices, the 
chant of the Christmas angels singing home the 
Homeless One, and in that flood of light and 

3 


THE CH%ISTOA^S WSHOP 

song all that city knew the Child they had lost 
their own, forever. 

Slowly, before the Bishop’s eyes, that gold ra- 
diance dimmed into the bleak gray twilight that 
was stealing over his room. Sharp as life shall 
strike at visions came a sound from below that 
struck the dreamy smile from his lips, leaving a 
twitching pain; certain sounds had that power 
of intolerable renewal. A homely enough sound, 
merely the thud of a lid dropped upon a flour 
bin, but it seemed now to be a flour bin in a 
doll-house pantry in their first Rectory, his and 
Annie’s. He would seek her there before going 
out to his parish calls. She would be standing 
with her back to him, hands deep in dough, and 
would turn to him her cheek, olive that always 
went rose beneath his kiss. He could still hear 
the catch of her breath as she whispered good-by, 
for Annie, deeply joyous, had yet always treated 
joy a little apprehensively, as if knowing it would 
not last so very long. Looking back over many 
years, the Bishop thought how young Annie had 
been when she died, and Nan had been younger 
still. Nan! There it was again! That flash 
4 


THE CHTilSTCM^S BISHOP 

of hot pain through his head, followed by a 
numbing dullness, even stranger to bear. He 
had felt this several times of late. The Bishop 
ran a hand over his forehead. He seemed to be 
floating far, without thought, yet this was not 
sleep. Slowly, slowly, he drew back, but his 
thoughts were heavy, not clear. He seemed to 
lie there waiting, waiting for something. Surely 
thus he had always waited on Christmas morn- 
ing. He listened. It would come in a moment. 
There! A scurry along the hall, the clatter of 
the door-handle, a rush, a jump, curls, lips, bub- 
bling chuckles, little cold toes to be warmed in 
his hand! Hear the shouts and the singing of 
her, feel the pummelling of her little hands ! 

Christmas ! Christmas ! Christmas ! ’’ 
shrilling straight up to the angels ! Was she not 
Christmas joy turned mad, his little girl! 

He was full awake now. His lips formed a 
word. We are very weary of old pain repeated 
when we whisper out to God like that. 

The Bishop wondered why people say that one 
grows used to loss, and that old age grows dull 
in feeling. Still he had got used to it, of course. 

5 


THE CHT(IS7m<^S BISHOP 

This was Christmas, too; it was quite natural 
that he should feel it more on Christmas. He 
must be a little patient then with himself about 
it, perhaps, on Christmas. Yet when had there 
been a day when he had not missed them, his 
own! 

The Bishop turned toward the eastward win- 
dow, and on his gray and beautiful face fell the 
gray and beautiful morning, for the Bishop was 
one who had made God a habit, so that he 
turned to Him instinctively without thinking 
about it at all. And since also he was a man 
of quick visual imagination he thought of God 
quite simply: he saw Him standing there, be- 
tween the bed and the brightening window, in 
the form of a young Jewish rabbi. He always 
stood there, to greet the Bishop's day. Together 
they always went about, step matching step, so 
that the Bishop was never a lonely man. To 
himself he always thought of the Nazarene as 
the Friend, because, so he thought, it was by 
loneliness that Jesus had learned how to love. 
Since the Bishop always thought in words and 
in pictures, it seemed to him that the Friend said 
6 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

to him now, “ Rise. Let us go forth into the 
morning. It is Christmas. It is the day of giv- 
ing.” 

While he dressed, the Bishop still knew God 
standing there, but felt rather than seen, being 
lost sometimes in mist and dizziness. The spaces 
in the room were strange; it was a very long 
journey to the washstand, and the white window 
squares seemed to advance and then recede. The 
Bishop could see his brush plainly enough on the 
bureau scarf, but it was a long time before he 
could make his hand reach it. He had to smile 
quaintly at himself at last, for he was sitting 
on the bed mechanically counting the flower bas- 
kets in the worn Brussels carpet, flower baskets 
that ran diagonally to the chair holding his coat. 
Groping a little, the Bishop achieved the coat, 
then stood trembling. Undoubtedly he was ill 
that morning, but Mrs. Graham should not know 
it ! For he must go out, he must go to church, 
there was no service in all the year so dear to 
him as the Christmas communion at St. John’s. 
He would force his blurring head to go through 
with it, and Mrs. Graham should not keep him 

7 


THE CHTi!ST(M.AS BISHOP 

in! Keep him in! A frown twitched on his 
forehead, an old man's helplessness at the thought 
of coddling. Why should a woman he had 
known but three years be so solicitous over his 
health, dictating about his rubbers and his socks 
— he was not ill, nor was he so very old! At 
that his brow cleared in a sunny flash of amuse- 
ment, for of course, he was very old, eighty-one, 
and besides Mrs. Graham was very good to him. 
Still to-day she must not keep him at home, for 
to stand once more within the rail offering the 
chalice to his people had become a deep and blind 
desire, overmastering all sense of weakness. Be- 
sides, there were other matters and grave ones 
to be seen to, to-day. Somehow — he looked 
toward the eastward window — the strength 
would come for the day, as it always came. 

Slowly, while he stood looking out into the 
morning grown rosy now with the coming sun, 
his head cleared more and more, as he thought 
about his Westbury as it brightened beneath the 
Christmas sunrise. Few towns, the Bishop 
thought, had changed so little in sixty years. He 
looked out on the same Westbury he had first 
8 


THE CH%IS7iMzAS BISHOP 

seen when he had come to St. John’s college as 
a boy. Stately old River Street with its twin 
rows of elms still curved to the curve of the 
river. Each quiet old house had in the rear a 
terraced wintry garden sloping to the wide and 
sparkling water. The Bishop knew each of these 
houses, even as far as Lucy Hollister’s, which 
was beyond his sight. Lucy still kept the house 
of her girlhood where the Bishop had first known 
her, known Lucy and her cousin, Annie. Far 
beyond Lucy’s house. River Street changed to 
towering tenements and grimed factories, the 
place of the strangers, where the Bishop often 
walked, but wistful and puzzled, for it was this 
part of Westbury alone that had changed since 
his boyhood, although even then it had been the 
place of work-people, for whom St. John’s South- 
side Mission had been founded. The Bishop 
stood thinking of the mission. 

Well in sight, breaking the row of houses set 
among their wintry trees, sprang the spire of St. 
John’s, and beyond its Rectory lay the brown, 
cube-like buildings of the college above the sweep- 
ing river, a small college of mighty men. It was 

9 


THE CH%lSTm<^S BISHOP 

there that the Bishop and his roommate, Barty 
Judd, had learned to dream dreams. It was the 
glory of Westbury, the kindly old city, remote, 
unworldly, that it had set so many young men 
dreaming. The Bishop smiled to think how 
proudly Westbury still pointed to its seven 
bishops, for the spirit of Westbury had not 
changed in all the sixty years since the founding 
of the mission. Westbury had given the Bishop, 
he thought, the most beautiful thing in his life; 
it was this that brought the light to his face as 
he thought of the gift he wished to give West- 
bury in return, to-day, if — if he could I At that 
“ if his eyes deepened with a sharp and subtle 
change, then cleared as the passing thought of the 
day before him yielded to memories, and he saw 
the afternoon of the laying of the mission corner- 
stone. As they had walked home together, the 
Bishop, after long silence, had broken into boy- 
ish fire of words, seeing all his life before him. 
Lucy had listened and answered, but Annie had 
been silent. 

Dreamer as the boy had been, he had never 
dreamed of coming back one day, long after- 
lo 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

wards, and living to be an old, old man in the 
bishop’s house in Westbury. 

The sun was climbing to a golden blaze now, 
filling with hope the day before the Bishop. He 
was always a good deal of a child in his Christ- 
mas feeling. There was work before him on 
this Christmas day, in his own house and out of 
it. Quite simply he closed his eyes a moment, 
with bowed head, thinking of the Westbury he 
loved and of three within it, whom he should see 
that day. 

The Bishop’s tall figure swayed a little as he 
grasped the stair rail, and for an instant his gaze 
was vague upon the dusky hall, upon the gloomy 
wall-paper, the threadbare carpet. It was a gray 
and worn old house in which the Bishop’s soul 
was harbored. A succession of housekeepers, 
under the oversight of Mrs. Hollister, kept it in 
order, but it needs the authority of kinship to 
change a wall-paper or a carpet. Thus it was 
that the Bishop’s long hallway was hardly more 
his own than the pavement outside, or his own 
dining-room door before which he paused, hardly 
more his own than the doors along his familiar 


II 


THE CH%ISTiM^S BISHOP 

River Street. His hand lingered on the knob, 
for, thinking of Mrs. Graham within, and of 
the testing now of his three years^ hope, he had 
grown apprehensive and wistful. Then his face 
flashed firm in a smile, as he looked toward Some- 
one beside him there in the dim hall. That little 
way of looking toward the Friend with a quick 
upward smile was one of the Bishop’s habits 
engendered by solitude. He never meant to be- 
tray his thought publicly, yet sometimes way- 
farers in the train, on the street, were startled 
at the sudden passing of strange light across the 
gray face, making it, as now in the opening door- 
way, the face of a little child. The Bishop bent 
toward the black-clad little woman before him 
the bow that belonged to the days of his youth. 
Age had stooped his shoulders, but never stiffened 
their grace, nor that of the sweep of his extended 
hand. His face — lean, clear-chiselled, blue- 
eyed, and heavily thatched with white — was 
ashine with Christmas greeting. 

“ I wish you a beautiful Christmas! ” he said. 

Mrs. Graham’s glance met the Bishop’s fur- 
tively. She had restless brown eyes beneath a 
12 


THE CHTiIST£M^S BISHOP 

tranquil parting of brown hair, curling and lightly 
silvered. Her mouth looked as if locked upon 
discontent She was a stout, rosy little woman 
who moved in a heavy, bustling manner. She 
put her hand into the Bishop’s awkwardly, never 
having become accustomed to one who shook 
hands as a morning greeting. 

‘‘ Merry Christmas,” she murmured perfunc- 
torily, as, in the holiday absence of a maid, she 
turned toward the business of the Bishop’s break- 
fast. The raised slide of the dumb-waiter made 
a gap in the solid paneling of dark cupboards 
occupying . one wall. Like other dining-rooms 
on River Street, the room had two long windows 
looking toward the water. There was a wide 
piazza beyond them, hung with the gnarly ropes 
of leafless Virginia creeper. It was a dark- 
wainscoted room, but now the level eastern sun 
flooded it, and there was a great crimson spot 
of roses at the Bishop’s plate. The table was 
set for one, he noticed; when Maria was away, 
Mrs. Graham insisted on serving him with her 
own hands, instead of settling comfortably into 
her usual seat. In the silent room, only the sound 

13 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

of the dumb waiter that creaked and rattled, but 
the Bishop was waiting to speak, after the long 
patience of three years. When his breakfast had 
been set forth to her satisfaction, Mrs. Graham 
sank upon the edge of a chair near the window, 
keeping an alert eye on the Bishop’s needs, but 
having also an air of absence. 

‘‘ Well,” she burst out at last, ‘‘ so it’s Christ- 
mas again ! ” 

“ Yes,” the Bishop smiled, “ ‘ again.’ It 
comes around pretty often, doesn’t it? This is 
your third Christmas in Westbury.” 

“ I wonder how many more I’ll have, in West- 
bury.” 

“ Is it such a bad place to spend Christmas in 
then, Westbury?” 

Bad for me, yes! After Fair Orchard! ” 

“ But I had hoped you had begun to feel at 
home in Westbury.” 

“Me! At home! In Westbury! No, I’ve 
no place here and never can have. I see that 
plain enough, — just a housekeeper, anyway! 
I’ve no place in the place, I mean, like at home! 
Oh, there’s no harm in Westbury! It’s not as 

14 


THE CH%ISTIM^S BISHOP 

bad as some towns. There’s show here, but it’s 
not showy; there’s money, but there’s manners, 
too! Only there’s no heart in the place! How 
could there be, with Dr. Newbold running 
the church and Mrs. Hollister running so- 
ciety? ” 

“ They both have hearts, I am sure, Mrs. Gra- 
ham.” 

“ Maybe. Not for plain people, or poor people, 
though. Maybe for you. Although Dr. New- 
bold — ” she broke off sharply, teeth on lip, while 
her eyes, too full and bright with meaning, 
changed before the Bishop’s gaze, and she altered 
her unspoken sentence, concluding, “ Dr. New- 
bold suits the place all right. He don’t suit me, 
that’s all. It’s kind of spoiled church for me, 
going to St. John’s, and church in Fair Orchard 
was such a lot to me. It’s queer when you al- 
ways hear about Westbury being such a strong 
church place that it should have spoiled church 
for me. It’s all right when you preach, of course. 
Bishop, but it’s something else I’m talking about. 
It was different at home — oh,” her rosy face 
darkened savagely, ‘‘ sometimes it seems as if 

15 


THE CH%1S7(M^S BISHOP 

my church was just another of the things she’s 
taken from me along with my home and my 
boy!” 

The Bishop closed his eyes an instant, seeking 
counsel. 

It’s Christmas that upsets me so ! Christmas 
that brings it all back on me so. And then to- 
day she sent, Florence herself, she sent the baby’s 
picture on a post-card. It’s signed ‘ From 
Florence.’ You’d think after all that’s happened, 
she’d have let Dan send it, the first word I’ve 
had from either of them for three years ! ” 

She rose and filled the coffee cup abruptly. 

Well,” she jerked the words out, ‘‘ Christmas 
and other days. I’ve got to grin and bear it, be- 
ing turned out by my son’s wife. But it’s been 
worse since there was a baby.” 

“ It’s the baby’s first Christmas,” mused the 
Bishop. 

‘‘ Yes, he’s seven months and sixteen days 
bid.” 

The Bishop smiled up at her, ‘‘ May I see 
him ? Where is the picture ? ” 

She laid it before him. The Bishop adjusted 

i6 


THE CHTiIST{M<^S WSHOH 

his glasses, then removed them to look from the 
picture to a keen scrutiny of the grandmother’s 
face. 

Yes,” she answered his look. “ You see it 
then ? The baby looks like us, like Dan and me. 
And I can see Dan’s father in him, too. There’s 
not a hair of him that looks like the Reynoldses, 
—that lot!” 

The Bishop was examining the photograph 
minutely. Mrs. Graham looked over his 
shoulder, but at his next word she moved away 
again. That’s his mother’s hand holding him, 
isn’t it, that shadow under his arm ? ” 

“ Yes ! His mother’s hand ! He looks like 
us, but he don’t belong to us ! He’s hers ! ” 

The Bishop glanced up, ‘‘ And I suppose he’s 
also the other grandmother’s.” 

“No! Florence has no mother. I’m all the 
grandmother that baby’s got ! ” 

“ I think you never told me that before,” he 
paused thoughtfully, then looking over to her 
standing by the window, he said, feeling slowly 
for words, “ So the baby’s mother, that girl 
out at Fair-Orchard, has had no mother — to^ 

17 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

go with her — on that way — a woman goes, to 
bring home, a little child ? ” 

The Bishop’s voice was soft with the awe of 
many years ago. The grandmother flushed, 
muttering, ‘‘She would not have wanted me. 
She had Dan.” 

The Bishop’s eyelids had fallen, quivering, 
over his eyes. He was far away; again he 
watched with Annie, with Nan, as he said, “ But 
men cannot understand. God does not mean 
them to. Such things are a secret between God 
and women, like the coming of Mary’s little child. 
Each mother needs a mother then. It was not 
— it was not till then that I understood how much 
my Nan had lost when she lost her mother.” 

“ It did not live, did it, at all, your daughter’s 
child?” whispered Mrs. Graham. 

The Bishop shook his head, not speaking, 
thinking of the little waxen loveliness they had 
laid to sleep with Nan in the hollow of her arm. 
His lips showed their rare palsied trembling, mur- 
muring, “ Both together. Nan and the little one. 
She had been so well! I was not prepared — ” 
the eyelids of his quiet gray face trembled, then 
i8 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

opened on the blue eyes, as he said, ‘‘Of course, 
we know they do not die. They are alive, some- 
where where the dreams come true that we dream 
for our children.’^ He smiled into her eyes, 
“ For we are great old dreamers, aren’t we, we 
grandparents ? ” He raised his hand from the 
chair-arm, as if it would have pleaded, “ But I 
think each mother needs the grandmother to help 
her dream. I think she is wanting you now, 
that Florence out there.” 

She faced sharp about, “Florence! Want 
me ! ” She looked at him in grim pity at his sim- 
plicity. “ No, Bishop, Florence don’t want me 1 
No more than I want her! We’re misfits, Flor- 
ence and me, — worse luck for Dan, and for me, 
and for the baby, too, now ! ” 

The blue eyes a-twinkle, “ And worse luck for 
Florence, too,” he persisted. “ She sent you the 
picture. Wasn’t it perhaps to say that she wants 
to show you the baby himself? ” 

“ It’s like you to think that. Bishop, but it’s 
not like Florence to mean that. I understand 
Florence! I can still see her face plain, that 
last morning ! ” 


19 


/ 


THE CH%ISTiM^AS BISHOP 

“ You have not seen her face since there was 
a baby. Perhaps she understands you, too, now. 
Perhaps she understands, now, what it costs, to 
give up an only child to anyone.” 

That’s it, of course, that’s what finished me 
up, her getting Dan, the way she has. I guess 
I seem pretty mean to you, but Dan was all I 
had.” 

“ I think I understand,” the Bishop said 
quietly. 

Arrested by his tone she turned, “ Was he good, 
your daughter’s husband? Did you get on with 
him?” 

No one is good enough for an only child. 
Yes, he was good. He — he has been remarried 
for a long time, you know.” He spoke with long 
pauses, remembering, Yes, I got on with him. 
I should have lost my daughter if I hadn’t. We 
had one happy year, together. Getting on is 
hard. But not getting on is harder.” 

She did not speak, turned from him again 
toward the window, intent, musing. 

‘‘ Isn’t it,” he pleaded, “ harder? ” 

“ You didn’t have to,” she spoke chokily, “ get 
20 


THE CtmSTlM^S BISHOP 

on with Florence! Maybe you could, though, 
you. Bishop. But I couldn't! You couldn’t 
maybe understand how I can’t forgive her for all 
that she’s taken from me, — a man couldn’t 
maybe understand, even you. It’s the mother 
working in me. They used to laugh at me over 
home, and say I mothered all the village. Yet 
now I can’t get at Dan, nor at the baby. I 
haven’t anyone to mother, and it seems as if it 
makes me sort of,” she struck away a tear with 
an awkward gesture, “ sort of smothery ! ” 

His eyes bent on her in sharp intentness, 
There is someone for you to mother ! ” he said. 
‘‘ Who?” 

‘‘ Florence!” 

“ Florence ! ” her voice hissed. 

“ Yes!” 

Her trembling lips turned hard, I guess I’d 
have to forgive her first ! ” 

‘‘ Couldn’t you ? ” he questioned, while the blue 
eyes grew softly a-shine. “ Couldn’t you, to- 
day? Couldn’t you, for instance, go out to them 
to spend Christmas, to-day?” His plan, long 
suppressed, came hurrying forth. It’s so near, 

21 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

and so easy! Only thirty miles to that baby! 
The train leaves at ten, you have time. There’s 
another train back at seven-two. And you 
needn’t mind about me. I shall be out all day, 
first a visit I must make, then the service, and 
afterward I dine with Mrs. Hollister. You are 
quite free, you see, to go ! ” 

‘‘ I’m free enough, yes,” she admitted, “ but I 
haven’t the will to go, that’s all.” 

“ To the baby?” 

“ To Florence I It would mean making up 
with Florence ! ” 

Lips and eyes showed a quick pleading smile 
as he said, ‘‘ Isn’t that perhaps what Christmas 
and babies are for, for making up? ” 

She was silent, her breast in its tightly hooked 
black rose and fell. ‘‘ But people ! ” she broke 
forth at length. “ Everybody knowing ! The 
village knows I was turned out, and that there’s 
not been a word between us for three years. I 
can’t go crawling back now, just because there’s 
a baby come, — everybody looking on, everybody 
knowing ! ” 

‘‘ It isn’t everybody’s baby. It’s yours, and 
22 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

hers/’ then gravely, “ I was not thinking of other 
people. I was just thinking how much she needs 
her mother, that girl ! ” 

‘‘ Florence 1 ” she said, and there were many 
thoughts in her tone, slow, incredulous. 

The Bishop’s eyes grew remote and bright, 
seeing Florence. He spoke a little dreamily. 
She needs you now, and she knows she needs 
you ! She may have been hard once, being young 
and without a mother. She may have been cruel. 
It is different now. She does not feel so secure 
now. They are so afraid for their babies, don’t 
you remember, always, these little new mothers. 
There are so many dangers lying in wait for the 
little men before they’ve got their armor on. 
There must be advice to give, and care to give — 
oh, Florence knows how much he needs his grand- 
mother ! Go and see. Can’t you ? Couldn’t 
you ? I — I’m in such a hurry to have you go ! ” 
“ If I could only hold him once, Dan’s baby! ” 
‘‘ Florence’s baby, too,” he corrected gently. 
The brief light swept from her face. Her 
plump comfortable hands were knotted, and her 
round face drawn into dignity by pain. Her 

23 


7HE CfmSTiM^S BISHOP 

words were grave and final, ‘‘ The way to that 
baby is only through Florence, so I can never 
go. I can never have him.” 

Involuntarily the Bishop’s hand went to his 
temple in a gesture of pain, then instantly was 
forced down. He hesitated, then at length, 

* Never ’ is such a long word,” he said. “ Some- 
times God says it for us, but don’t — don’t let us 
ever say it for ourselves ! You know,” a passing 
tremor ran along his lips, He didn’t let me have 
the grandchild I hoped for, but don’t — don’t 
lose having yours. It seems as if I couldn’t let 
you go on losing, — that. I am in such a hurry 
somehow to-day. Can’t you go out there to-day, 
now? Take the baby the Christmas present his 
mother most wants for him, take him his grand- 
mother! ” 

She turned on him, intense, “ Bishop, do you 
know what it’s like to make up with a person 
who’s done you wrong? Do you know what it 
feels like to forgive? A person who’d hurt 
you ? Where you care most ? ” 

A moment he groped in past experience for 
the answer, then in a rush of realization it came 
24 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

upon him. He rose a little unsteadily, that he, 
too, might stand to face her, as she stood by 
the curtained recess of the window, where the 
searchlight of the Christmas sun fell relentless 
on the drawn intensity of her plump face. The 
Bishop’s lean, corded hands rested on the two 
ebony knobs of the chair back. He did not no- 
tice, nor did she, that he swayed slightly with a 
passing dizziness. 

“ Yes,” he answered slowly, thinking of one 
he soon must see to-day, ‘‘ I know how it feels. 
Yes, I have had to learn, how to forgive — where 
I cared most ! ” 

“ How did you make yourself do it? How? ” 

He would have evaded if he could. “ I only 
know the old way,” he said humbly, for the 
Bishop was shy in speaking of some things, as 
one is shy in speaking about any friend in his 
presence. 

‘‘ Tell me how!” 

“ I only know one way,” he repeated simply. 
** We all get at the truth from different angles, 
so there may be many ways to learn to forgive, 
but I can only tell you about the way that I have 

25 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

tried.’’ The Bishop was so old that often, as 
now, his eyes showed the reflection of the harbor- 
lights in view. As always in his sermons, he had 
now lost, in his very consciousness of their needs, 
the presence of his audience in the overwhelming 
Presence of which he forced himself to speak, 
‘‘ The way I have found is to try always to see 
through His eyes. I think He is always very 
near us, trying always to lift us to the level of 
His eyes, so that we can look forth from that 
point of view. I think He is always trying and 
trying to say things to us to excuse — the people 
who have hurt us. If only we could clear our 
ears to hear Him! If only we could stand at 
the level of His outlook into souls! Then we 
should see so much that’s pitiable and excusable, 
so many handicaps and mistakes, so much to make 
us sorry for them that we couldn’t help forgiv- 
ing. He always saw enough in every soul to make 
Him patient, and if we don’t see enough to make 
us patient, too, we have to trust His vision 
and insight, and forgive because He does. 

“ Yet it is hardest,” the Bishop’s face showed 
a passing shadow, as he looked inward upon past 
26 


7HE CtmS7(M<^S BISHOP 

struggles and forward to that next interview of 
his Christmas Day, to forgive those who hurt 
Him, His work. Yet he forgave even that, upon 
His cross. When we remember that, I do not 
know how I — how we — dare not to forgive.'’ 
He paused, while his fingers on the black knobs 
tightened, then the shadow of his face was struck 
away by the quick sunshine of reassurance. He 
looked toward Mrs. Graham, “You see," he said, 
“ it seems to me that if God in all His eternity 
has no time to be stern, then perhaps we — who 
have such a little while! have no time for any- 
thing but loving. Don't you," he pleaded, “ don't 
you think so, too ? " 

The ruddiness had paled from her cheeks. She 
was looking at him with wide, intense eyes. 

“ That's your way. Bishop. But it's what I 
couldn't — ever climb up to, — I guess." She 
had to fight to speak, against her choking breath, 
“ Tm one of those you'll have to forgive. I'm 
afraid, for not doing what you want. I wish I 
could, on your account. But it don't seem as if 
I could make up with Florence. But I can't bear 
that you should look like that. Bishop, — disap- 

27 


THE CH%IST[McAS BISHOP 

pointed! Don% please don% mind! Ifs just 
that Fm a mother who’s lost her boy, and wants 
him back and can’t get him, him and his baby ! ” 

“ And yet,” he answered, ‘‘ they are all there, 
all ready for you, waiting, wanting you, all there ! 
It is, it is, too bad ! ” 

“ Florence ! ” she whispered. 

“ Needing and wanting you most of all. See- 
ing, by the way her little one needs her, how 
much she needs a mother. Perhaps mothering 
is your way of forgiving. Couldn’t you try it? 
Florence has never had a chance, has she, to learn 
many things, if she has been a motherless girl? 
Perhaps she did hate you once. I don’t believe 
she hates anyone now. It’s very hard to hate 
when there^s a baby in the house. She sent the 
picture. She needs you. She knows she needs 
you, for she knows now what a child can miss 
who has no mother. Let us think of all she has 
missed, and not be too hard on her, you and I, 
any more.” 

She was silent, one hand tense upon the curtain 
cord. 

“ It’s such a good day to go,” he urged, “ such 
28 


7HE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

a good day to do the unexpected, Christmas! 
Everyone expects the unexpected, on Christmas/^ 
A comical smile worked on her set face, “ You 
do, anyway. Bishop ! ” she said with a catch in 
the throat. 

“ I think I did allow myself to expect this,’’ he 
answered, ‘‘ this making-up. Perhaps I expected 
it because I wanted it so, for I’ve been in such a 
hurry somehow, about that baby. Why, he’ll 
be growing up, while we’re still talking. You 
have three-quarters of an hour,” he glanced at the 
clock in quick remembrance of the visit to Dr. 
Newbold before church-time, ‘‘ and you’ll go? ” 
He waited. 

She was silent still, until she burst out, “ I 
can’t I I’d say ‘ yes ’ if I could, when you beg 
me so. But I can’t say it, and I’ve got to be 
honest with you. I can’t say it ! ” 

Her face, working with sobs she forced down, 
was too painful to look at, yet it gave no hope. 

I am very sorry,” he said quietly and turn- 
ing went into the great study adjoining, which 
faced, like the dining-room, on the veranda and 
river. Suddenly very tired, he sank into liis 

29 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 
desk chair, pressing the tips of his fingers to his 
temples, which had such a painful way of throb- 
bing every little while this morning. 

“ I did want it very much,” he acknowledged 
to himself, ‘‘ very much.” He sat thinking, for 
some moments, then remembering, rose and went 
into the hall to put on his overcoat, whispering, 
‘‘ But it happened to Him like this always — al- 
ways ! ” 

About to go out into the street, he turned back. 
The dining-room door was shut. He opened it. 
Mrs. Graham was still standing in the window 
recess, her forehead pressed to the cooling pane. 
There was no one to see her face. Common- 
place, coarse, ugly with tears, lights were trem- 
bling across it. ‘‘If she needs me,” she was whis- 
pering, “ if she needs me, — ” for a holy thing 
was being bom. 

In the doorway, wearing his old cape over- 
coat, his face like a wistful child’s beneath his 
silver hair, the Bishop waited. 

“ You will go? ” 

She did not hear, nor know. She did not move 
until she started at a sound, the heavy closing of 
the outer door. 

30 


PART II 


T he river was a splendor of Christmas sun- 
shine. A flurry of snow had lightly 
powdered the brown sod beneath the double rows 
of elms. Few people were abroad. Sometimes 
a little group of children, eyes and feet a-dance, 
and cheeks nipped red, went tripping past the 
Bishop. Older folk passed with hearty, careless 
greeting, for the stooping figure in the cape over- 
coat was as familiar and unnoted as the river it- 
self with all its mystery of light. The Bishop had 
known Westbury so long and so well that he felt 
that the homes by which he was passing, all 
bright with holly, were his homes, that he might 
have stopped anywhere to share the Christmasing. 
His slowly pacing feet, however, were bent on 
the old way toward St. John’s Rectory. In the 
old days the Bishop had always called at the Rec- 
tory to greet Barty Judd and his household be- 
fore church-time, and he still kept to the habit, 

31 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

even though it was so different now at the Rec- 
tory. 

A flock of sparrows came swooping down 
through the wintry silence with much chatter, and 
at the same time there came scudding across the 
street a little Italian newsboy as shrill and brown 
as the birds. The Bishop bought a paper, and 
made the youngster’s smile flash as he paused 
for a few words in his own tongue. Presently, 
as he went on, the newspaper dropped from the 
Bishop’s fingers, as he fell to thinking of that 
alien colony down below there, where the river 
curved, Westbury’s strangers. They had come 
so recently, the factories had sprung up so quickly, 
that the workers were still the strangers. It is 
true that the Bishop was well known to those 
teeming streets as the old man who spoke Italian 
and who loved babies, but he felt that he had 
done nothing for these others, really. Eighty 
years! How barren of accomplishment they 
looked beneath the searchlight of Christmas! 
But perhaps there was still time ! His step 
quickened. 

As the Bishop passed beneath the shadow of 

32 


THE CH%lSTiM^S BISHOP 

St. John’s church, the chimes clanged forth the 
ten o’clock hour. He glanced toward the door, 
thinking how calm and gentle and familiar every- 
thing was within. After all, his headache had 
melted away and nothing was to prevent his 
presence by the altar on this morning. The quiet 
of the chancel was restful to his fancy, lying 
beyond the visit immediately before him. 

As he turned up the Rectory steps, tugging 
slightly on the handrail, the door was flung open, 
and a tall boy came hurrying out. His thin, 
fine face was set and black, but a smile played 
across its frown when he saw the Bishop. 

Good morning, Harry,” said the visitor, and 
good Christmas.” 

‘‘ There’ll be no good Christmas here,” an- 
swered the low taut voice, unless you’ve brought 
it. Bishop ! ” 

“ No trouble here to-day, I hope? ” 

“ Trouble every day, now!” Then remembering 
dignity, Harry shut his lips, adding more calmly, 
‘‘ Father is not well this morning, Bishop. I am 
just going out to tell Mr. Edgerton that he does 
not feel able to be at church.” 


33 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

‘‘ I am very sorry.” 

“ I’m sorry, too, — sorry for mother and Lois! 
I am glad you’ve come. It will do them good to 
see you.” 

And may I see your father, too ? ” 

“ I think so, if you wish it. I shouldn’t wish 
it 1 ” Harry murmured darkly, as he turned about 
to unlock the door he had slammed, calling in a 
low note of warning to his mother, and then 
leaving the Bishop with her in the drawing-room. 
The shades had been pulled down, the holly 
wreaths looked dull. A little mouse of a girl 
came out of a shadowy comer, and the mother’s 
arm went about the child’s shoulders as the two 
greeted the Bishop. They both had thin dark 
faces and intense brown eyes. The girl’s hair 
was dusky and the mother’s silver, above a fore- 
head worn but unwrinkled. The girl’s dress was 
white and the mother’s clinging gray, and both 
wore sprays of blood-red holly. 

“ Christmas joy to you both,” smiled the 
Bishop. 

“ And happy Christmas to you, too. Bishop,” 
said the mother, while Lois took his hat and cane. 

34 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

He tugged helplessly at his overcoat so that they 
each sprang to pull at a sleeve. 

“ Thank you. There ! Don’t let yourself be 
eighty, Lois. It’s a sad thing to be older than 
your overcoat.” Then, seating himself, he con- 
tinued, “ Harry tells me his father is not well to- 
day. I am very sorry. I have been worried 
lately about him.” 

‘‘We have all been worried. It is hard to 
understand. I suppose,” Mrs. Newbold smiled 
wanly, “ it is just another case of ministerial 
nerves, but he suffers very much at times. I wish 
I could shield him from all worry, but I cannot 
always anticipate what is going to disturb him. 
We try, the children and I, but I fear we are very 
stupid. This morning, for instance — ” she broke 
off, “ this morning he felt quite unequal to the 
Christmas service, yet he is worried at not be- 
ing there.” 

“ Edgerton and I will manage the service. Dr. 
Newbold may be quite at ease about that. I 
hope — ” 

A summoning bell from above rang sharply. 

Mrs. Newbold started, “ Oh, Katie is at 

35 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 

church,” she exclaimed. ‘‘Run, Lois! No, I’ll 
go myself!” With fingers upon the portiere, 
however, she paused. 

The Bishop rose, an odd little flicker in his 
eyes. “ Suppose I go,” he said, moving toward 
the hall. 

The wife looked at him, fighting for a tremu- 
lous smile. “ There is nothing the matter really, 
of course. I shouldn’t let you go up. I know 
I ought to go. But — ” she drew quick breath, 
concluding, “ he’s in the study, Bishop.” 

Once again as earlier in the day, the Bishop 
paused before a closed door. An instant he stood 
there, hesitant, with bowed head, deeply thought- 
ful, then he knocked with firm hand. 

“ Come in, of course,” a voice thundered. 
“ Why else should I ring except for you to come 
in!” 

The Bishop was standing quietly in the door- 
way. At sight of him, the bulky form flung 
upon the couch sprang up. 

“I — I — beg your pardon. I thought it was 
the maid, or my wife.” 

“ It is merely your bishop.” 

36 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

The Bishop’s quiet length sank into a deep 
chair. His long slim hands rested calmly upon 
the leather arms. 

Dr. Newbold sat bolt upright upon the couch, 
darting furtive glances at the Bishop from eyes 
too blue for his reddened face. His right hand, 
strong and square, clutched a cushion tensely. 
The nervous twitching of his lips redeemed from 
heaviness a face clean-shaven but always bearing 
the blue-black shadow of a heavy growth of 
beard. There was a pleasant sweep of brow be- 
neath jet hair. 

‘‘ I am sorry you find me so upset this morning. 
Bishop. They perhaps told you downstairs — ” 
then he paused, remembering what they might 
well have told the Bishop downstairs ! 

“ Harry told me you were ill. I met him go- 
ing out.” 

‘‘ I judged that he had gone out. Harry’s sole 
comment on his father’s headaches is slamming 
the front door ! ” 

The youngsters know so little about head- 
aches,” answered the Bishop ; that is the trouble, 
then, this morning, headache ? ” 


37 


THE CHTiIST€M^S BISHOP 

“ The headache is constant, back here, inces- 
sant. But this morning the trouble is, — a case 
of everything, as the doctor says.” 

“What does the doctor say? We must find 
some way of setting straight this case of every- 
thing.” 

“ What they all say — nerves, rest, less work, 
less worry, fewer diocesan committees, fewer din- 
ner parties — in Westbury where dining is a cult, 
and as venerable and as sacred as the church 
steeple! I might as well toss over one as the 
other! Suppose I did turn heretic, and refuse 
Mrs. Hollister's invitation for Thursday ! Could 
I preach beneath her withering glances next Sun- 
day? 

“ Or suppose I gave up my bridge with my Se- 
nior Warden. The Church needs more card- 
playing clergy, he says quite frankly. And I’m 
inclined to think, Bishop, that it does. A little 
more humoring of men of our good warden’s 
type, and perhaps Dr. Judd’s experiences would 
be less often repeated. Doctors and dinners be 
what they will — ” mockery and worry both 
played about the heavy flexible lips, “ I have the 

38 


THE CH%ISTOA^S BISHOP 

unfortunate close of that rectorate ever before 
me.” 

You forget ! ” said the Bishop’s voice, low and 
keen. There was a tiny fleck of red upon his 
cheek bones. Dr. Judd’s forced resignation had 
been a matter of disagreement between the con- 
gregation of St. John’s and the Bishop. There 
was perhaps no connection between the action of 
the vestry and the fact that Dr. Newbold, immedi- 
ately called to the parish, had been for years a 
friend of the Senior Warden, and a prominent 
co-worker with him in diocesan affairs ; the wires 
of diocesan politics sometimes presented a strange 
network for feet like the Bishop’s. 

The Bishop was silent a moment, for the Rec- 
tor’s hand, lying square upon the cushion, had re- 
called to him the days when he had sometimes in- 
voluntarily closed his eyes against the sight of 
his young secretary’s finger nails. It was an 
exquisitely kept hand nowadays, yet one that 
looked unhealthily inactive rather than sleek. 

Well,” mused the Bishop, at last, if one 
can’t cut out any of these social obligations, how 
about the committees ? ” 


39 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

Pity for the quick start and the flush of hurt 
pride, made him add instantly, ‘‘Not that the 
committees can spare you. The church needs 
you, and we should only be sparing you for a lit- 
tle while to save you for bigger service after- 
wards.” 

“ I should regret,” replied Dr. Newbold firmly, 
while glancing down in some embarrassment, 
“ withdrawing from any service to the diocese, — 
just now.” 

“ Why just now? ” 

The Rector lifted his lids for a quick glance, 
then dropped his eyes again to his uneasy foot, 
“ The affairs of the diocese, as well as those of 
the church at large, are passing through a critical 
period.” 

“ Sufficient to justify the loss of your health? ” 

“ I feel that the diocese needs me. Bishop.” 

“ It needs us all.” 

“ Particularly now,” repeated the Rector. 

A curious subtlety crossed the cameo clearness 
of the Bishop’s face, “ But do you not feel that 
perhaps the need for your activity might be even 
greater later on ? ” 

40 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

“ You mean — /’ Newbold faltered, for simple 
folk like the Bishop were hard to fathom some- 
times, even after twenty years of study. 

The Bishop’s smile showed, disarming, ‘‘ I 
mean simply, lad — if I may call you that some- 
times, on Christmas, say, — that the diocese can’t 
afford to have you break down. It needs, and 
will need you, too much for that. Therefore, — 
let the diocese take care of itself a little while.” 

‘‘ It’s been doing that too long,” the other broke 
forth, with the brutality of overwrought nerves. 

A shadow passed over the Bishop’s clear, gray 
face. Quick words caught with odd puckering 
upon his lips. He leaned his silver head against 
the high, dark chairback, long silent. 

“Is it really so bad as that, Newbold?” he 
asked at last. “ What is it that is wrong? ” 

“ Our finances, for one thing. The treasurer’s 
last report — ” 

“ There must be finances, I suppose.” 

The other smiled his cynical, twitching smile, 
“If there’s to be a church at all there must be 
finances.” He spoke with the irritation belong- 
ing to many a former discussion. 


41 


THE CH%IS7iM^S BISHOP 

The Bishop’s inscrutable gaze rested long upon 
the Rector. You are thinking, and rightly, that 
I am saved much because I have good laborers 
in the field to count the sheaves and the shekels? 
Believe me, Newbold, I know the value of your 
work to the diocese and I am sorry for the weari- 
ness of it.” 

The other’s face cleared in still uneasy relief. 
‘‘ I do not feel that I can withdraw from any office 
in the diocese, in the church, however small my 
service.” 

It is not small. You are the most prominent 
man in the diocese. The most active. The most 
influential.” 

The other flushed with pleasure, yet regarded 
his guest enigmatically. Those are cheering 
words. Bishop, for a day like this, of discourage- 
ment and — of pain.” His hand went to the 
throbbing disc at the back of his neck, as he 
added abruptly, ‘‘If what you say is true. Bishop, 
I am perhaps paying the price.” 

“ I am afraid,” answered the Bishop gently, 
“ that you are.” 

“ One doesn’t expect the strings to snap at 
42 


7HE CH%IS7(M^S BISHOP 

forty-five ! ” Newbold said querulously. “ I could 
have swung a sledge once! I could still! Yet 
— it makes me wonder — I have wondered 
lately — what is the secret of your vitality, 
Bishop.’’ 

The flicker of a smile on the Bishop’s lips, 
‘‘ Yet I had thought, Newbold, that you did not 
think so highly of my vitality — that you thought 
it an ebbing flood, a year or two ago.” 

The other flushed to the brow. 

It was for your own sake. Bishop, to save 
you the wear and tear of constant travel, constant 
work, that I urged upon the convention the elec- 
tion of a coadjutor.” 

“ I wish you had done it not merely for my 
sake, but for the sake of the diocese and of the 
church.” 

“ It was for that, too,” Newbold murmured. 

“ It was at any rate not for my own sake that 
I refused to have an assistant,” the Bishop went 
on. “ If I could have trusted the choice of my 
clergy! It is easy and natural, to choose the 
most popular, the most prominent. A bishop’s 
diocese is dearer than perhaps any one of his 

43 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 

clergy can understand. It is my little piece of 
God’s world, it is my Westbury in large. 

“ And my ways are the old ways. My 
assistant’s might have been the new.” He 
paused a moment chin on hand, then looked up 
quickly, ‘‘What are the new ways?” he asked. 
“For I suppose my successor will introduce 
them.” 

Newbold warmed instantly, moistening his 
twitching lips, “ The ways first of all of econom- 
ical administration. The church must show itself 
a good business if we want business men to re- 
spect it.” 

“ Do we?” 

“ Do we not? ” Nervous lightnings leaped to 
Newbold’s eyes. “ These are not days of sen- 
timental idealism, of faiths that float in air. 
To-day a man wants to see his money’s worth in 
the church as well as out of it. The church,” he 
brought a tense fist down upon the cushion, “ has 
become a business proposition ! ” 

The Bishop’s face was intent on Newbold, yet 
inward and remote. Then the blue eyes smiled, 
44 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 

Oh, but not in Westbury ! ” he pleaded. ‘‘ We 
are not money-mad in Westbury ! ” 

‘‘ Because you have so much money ! Have 
alAvays had ! Yet the purse-strings are the heart- 
strings in Westbury as elsewhere. Instance my 
vestry and the Southside Mission. Closed, three 
weeks ago. Westbury is wealthy but not waste- 
ful. The mission was unsuccessful, therefore to 
be eliminated from the items of our expenditure. 
The need of St. John’s, economical organization, 
is merely an example of the needs of the diocese, 
and of the church at large.” 

“ I think I was not, was I, officially told of the 
action of the church, in closing the mission? ” 
The Rector stirred uneasily, then looked up 
with boyish directness, I was remiss. Bishop, 
and I acknowledge it. But I knew the matter" 
would need full explanation for you, and to be 
frank. I’ve postponed a good many things of late, 
simply because I felt paralysed before them. I’m 
all out of sorts, not myself at all. I can’t tell 
what’s the matter with me.” 

The Bishop, noting the sudden hysterical flab- 

45 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

biness of the whole face, recalled the man to firm 
thought. 

‘‘ The mission is permanently closed, then ? 
That seems to me sad news for Christmas morn- 
ing.’’ 

Believe me. Bishop, I understand your feel- 
ing about it. I, too, regret the closing of the 
mission. I’ve positively enjoyed my work down 
there.” 

I should think that you might have found the 
mission work almost restful after the other sort.” 

‘‘ It was restful. Strangely ! They speak 
out down there, act out, too. The Southside 
caused me no night-long guessing, like my neigh- 
bors here. Yet I had no time for the mission, 
and lately no money either, for the work has be- 
come unpopular, quite naturally.” 

‘‘ Naturally?” 

“ I mean the factories and the foreigners have 
obscured the native population for whom the mis- 
sion was organized. Social conditions were dif- 
ferent a few years ago. It was perfectly possible 
then for prominent members of St. John’s to work 
at the mission and yet preserve all the decencies 
46 


THE CtmSTDA^S BISHOP 

of class distinction. The church would hardly 
expect a man of my Senior Warden’s type to or- 
ganize clubs and classes for his own factory 
hands ! ” 

“ Yet might not Christianity expect it? ” 

‘‘ In these days, Bishop, I fear, Christianity 
and the church are two totally different proposi- 
tions ! ” 

“ You have not lost your power of frankness, 
Newbold!” 

A sudden shadow dropped over Newbold’s face. 
“Have I not?” he questioned himself darkly, 
then louder, “ With you, Bishop, it is always curi- 
ously hard not to say what one thinks. Yet I 
don’t wish you to misunderstand me. I seem 
to want to be understood this morning. And 
you’re the only person in the universe, I believe, 
who’d take the trouble. It’s not, then, that I 
don’t myself believe the principles of the Chris- 
tian religion.” 

A smile, infinitely sad and subtle, passed over 
the Bishop’s lips. “ Since you are a minister of 
the Gospel,” he said gently, “ one might hope that 
you believe it.” 


47 


THE CH%ISTiM^S BISHOP 

‘‘ I have come to believe a good bit of it/' 

‘‘To believe enough, lad ? " 

The Christmas bells had begun again. The 
voices of the churchgoers sounded on the clear air, 
but the Christmas visitor sat unheeding. 

The Rector's voice was rasped with the tension 
of self-defense. “ Unfortunately for his health 
and happiness, a minister of the Gospel has much 
more to think about than what he believes. He 
has to think what his own congregation is going 
to allow him to say and to do; he has to think 
what the church at large is going to allow him to 
say and to do. He has to think of the success of 
his own parish, and of the church, and of him- 
self. All three must please the public or fail. 
Now my policy — 

“ Yes," the Bishop commented quietly, “ your 
policy ? A man of growing influence, like yours, 
would naturally have outlined for himself his 
creed and his conduct." 

“ My conduct, assuredly, yes. It has been my 
endeavor ever since I entered the priesthood, and 
will always be my aim, to establish respect for the 
48 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

church, and its clergy, in the community, and in 
the world at large.” 

‘‘ And by what methods ? ” 

“The same that prevail in other organizations, 
sound business system, and the establishment of 
social dignity. We can’t expect our young men 
to be attracted to the ministry unless we can show 
them something in it worth getting, — they natu- 
rally want to get out of it reputation, success, so- 
cial recognition, as in other professions.” 

“ You have found those things yourself,” the 
Bishop’s tone was half comment, half question. 

“ Yes,” answered Newbold, straightening, “ I 
believe I can say that I have found those things. 
I started at least without them, as you must well 
remember — I was a raw enough youngster when 
I first came to you in Westbury — it is humorous 
to recall — ” he laughed a sharp nervous laugh, 
then grew instantly grave, “ I didn’t have much 
in those days, but I did have health.” 

“ Yes,” the Bishop answered, “ you did have,” 
he paused oddly — “ health ! ” 

“ I suppose, if the term had not been so much 

49 


THE CH%ISTm^S BISHOP 

abused that I might truthfully call myself a self- 
made man. The church has done much for me. 
I am grateful, — with reservations ! That is why 
I feel that in spite of these diabolic nerves of 
mine I must go on, must serve the church, the 
diocese, in its need.” 

Yet you feel,” asked the Bishop wistfully, 
‘‘ that you cannot serve the Southside Mission ? ” 

Sharp sagacity instantly controlled Newbold’s 
garrulous nerves, That was a principle of sim- 
ple common sense, such as might well be applied 
to other die-away mission chapels in many a 
parish.” 

Very low the other voice, and far away, “ Yet 
the poor are to have the Gospel preached to 
them.” 

“ The parent church is open to them,” New- 
bold answered almost with petulance, ‘'here as 
elsewhere.” 

“ You mean,” the tone was strange, “ that it 
would be your policy to close other missions, in 
other churches, throughout the diocese ? ” 

“ It would be my policy,” replied Newbold, 

50 


THE CHTilSTDAzAS BISHOP 

setting his heavy jaw, to cut off all waste until 
we get our diocesan treasury out of debt. The 
church’s one foundation,” he added with that 
daring cynicism that delighted St. John’s in his 
sermons, ‘‘ is at present sound finance.” 

It was a buffet across the Bishop’s face, mak- 
ing Newbold instantly protest, It is not the mere 
money. It is the deep unpopularity of such 
missions as the Southside with such congrega- 
tions as St. John’s. Am I to go against my ves- 
try and retain my position? Am I to be a Dr. 
Judd?” 

“You are afraid?” 

“Afraid! Impossible! For a man of my 
make-up,” he smiled in honest amusement, wet- 
ting his lips, “ I merely have the sense not to be- 
come voluntarily unpopular. What can a man 
do in the face of unpopularity? His hands are 
tied. He is helpless.” 

The room and the man before him sank like a 
picture curtained from the Bishop’s sight. With 
wide strange eyes he saw another picture. He 
was unconscious of his words, “ His hands were 

51 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

tied, in the face of unpopularity! Yet He 
preached the Gospel to the poor, — and to the 
rich, to the poor rich ! ” 

There was a long uncomfortable silence, dur- 
ing which the Bishop rested his head against 
the chair-back, waxen eyelids closed. Newbold 
studied the silent, sculptured face so long that at 
last for pure uneasiness he faltered, ‘‘ I own. 
Bishop, that Tm no idealist.’’ 

The Bishop opened far, clear eyes, ‘‘ What 
are you?” 

There was a long pause, then still in that far, 
clear voice, speaking quite to himself the Bishop 
said, Yet you will be — ” 

The room, embrowned, closed against the 
Christmas sun, dusky with many books, held the 
two men, who faced each other as once in a life- 
time men may. 

The Bishop completed his own sentence, ‘‘ You 
will be — my successor I ” 

It was quite silent now, for the bells had 
ceased and the chat of church-goers. The chan- 
cel of St. John’s was only a stone’s throw from 
the chair where the Bishop sat, yet it was far 

52 


THE CHTilSTlM^AS BISHOP 

from him, the chancel with its peace. But he 
could still get to church, although late, in time 
for the communion. One more Christmas sac- 
rament was before him, if only he could hold his 
brain clear and his body taut, through one short 
hour more, against the sudden blurring pain in 
his head. 

The silence of the study still quivered with 
the Bishop’s last words, ‘‘ My successor ! ” 

Newbold sat facing the fact never before so 
clearly stated by anyone, not even by himself, 
but clear to him now as the goal of his clumsy, 
forceful youth, of his anxious, successful minis- 
try, a goal almost near enough now to touch, 
perhaps. He could not take his eyes from the 
Bishop’s face, transparent as porcelain, now 
turned into a mask, impenetrable. 

‘‘I would not be your choice. Bishop?” 

The straight line of the Bishop’s lips formed 
a quiet, “ No! ” 

‘‘ And likely enough, I may be nobody else’s 
choice either — in spite of — services rendered ! ” 
Then querulous before that intent, gray face that 
gave no sign, ‘‘ It’s small odds what happens, 

53 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

with this head of mine! Yet I have served and 
would gladly serve — ” 

“God?’’ the Bishop lifted level eyes. 
Newbold’s thick lips formed for a quick reply, 
worked oddly, then were oddly dumb a moment 
before they twisted into a cynic curve from the 
large teeth. “ Harry spoke to me with some frank- 
ness this morning. He had just left me when 
you came, Bishop, a different visitor, it seemed 
to me. A curious Christmas, verily, if you, too, 
like all the rest, think strange things of me! ” 

“ Strange things ! Are they not true ? ” 

A rush of anger had swept the color to the 
Bishop’s cheeks and shot lightnings to his eyes. 
The years had fallen from his face like a veil 
snatched aside. Yet with a torrent of words 
upon his tongue, the Bishop, looking at Newbold, 
turned silent. There are some men to whom 
the sight of one who cringes before a blow de- 
served is humiliating to their own inmost man- 
hood. The sight of Newbold seated there, from 
his bowed, brute head, with its too-blue, watch- 
ing eyes, to his big foot that never ceased to tap 
the rug raspingly, had caused the Bishop a 
54 


THE CHTilSTiMcHS BISHOP 

recoil for which he hated himself. Yet his anger 
was just, just! The Christ Himself had cried 
out against the hypocrite, against commercialism 
in spiritual places. The Bishop, of fine frail 
fiber as he was himself, remembered the charm 
for him of the youthful Newbold’s provincial 
crudity and heartiness, — but now, the Bishop 
thought bitterly, if one wished to make a minis- 
ter of the gospel, one had better take a gentleman 
to start with! 

He had trusted Newbold at the first, as he 
might have trusted a son; he had forced himself 
to trust him afterwards, until this very day. Yet 
the Bishop now acknowledged that he had known 
well enough whose influence was at work in the 
diocese against his own, why certain motions he 
had desired were tabled in the convention, or if 
passed, only half-heartedly carried out. How 
hard the Bishop had fought not to be aware of a 
growing evil undercurrent in the spirit of dio- 
cesan i ork! He was far too sensitive not to 
have felt, as he talked with some of his promi- 
nent clergy and laity, his own great simple en- 
thusiasm fall like a baffled flood against a politely 

ss 


7HE CH%ISTDA^/1S BISHOP 

concealed embarrassment he refused to under- 
stand ! But he had understood ! He knew now 
that he had. 

Oh, there were powers of evil militant against 
the faith, the work, to which he had given his 
life! He had tried not to see them, to believe 
each man good, especially this man. Yet in this 
moment it seemed to him that this Newbold, 
seated there, was the very cause of it all, of this 
dark Judas spirit that everywhere throughout the 
diocese mocked the loveliness of Christ within 
His very church! Again denunciation trembled 
like a lash, then again was restrained because of 
a certain dignity in the soul gazing so grimly 
from the bright-blue eyes, testing the Bishop. 
It was a face the Bishop had loved and it was 
haggard as a face in a fever picturg. 

With all the power of vision innate in him the 
Bishop saw the facts of his failure. This was 
the man with whom, more than with any other, 
he had sought to share his service and his soul. 
They wore both of them the badge of God’s min- 
istry, they were both of them the stewards of 
Christ’s mysteries; they sat now, after twenty 

56 


T:HE CtmS7€MzAS BISHOP 

years of friendship, two men girt in by four 
brief walls, yet far apart as two who do not 
speak each other’s tongue. 

The Bishop’s brow grew tense at the hard 
thought that it must have been all his own fault ! 
He had walked, as he had thought, beside the 
Christ, the Friend, yet a man close to him as 
Newbold had perceived in the Bishop himself no 
reflection of that Beauty! Oh, it could not be! 
Newbold must understand! For the very loneli- 
ness of it, the Bishop’s face grew all wistfulness, 
as if a child, lost on a city street, should lift its 
face to a stranger, hungry for kinship. But for 
all his seeking the Bishop could not find the lad 
Newbold in the face before him, grown steel- 
tense with scrutiny. 

There was worse than this, too, as the Bishop 
looked, clear-eyed, on his failure. He must one 
day leave to this man his Westbury, if not, as 
chance and choice might direct, his diocese, it 
had been the Bishop’s comfort to believe, sensi- 
tive as he had been to the great currents of un- 
rest and indifference in the world at large, that 
Westbury had remained exquisitely old-fashioned. 

57 


7HE CH%IS7m.AS BISHOP 

Yet it was by the will of the congregation of 
St. John’s that the Southside Mission had been 
closed, the mission the Bishop had seen their 
fathers found, with free outpouring of themselves 
and their purses. Had the Westbury of to-day 
grown Judas- jealous of squandering both self 
and money ? The Bishop must one day go forth 
from Westbury leaving it — nothing! And 
whose could be the fault but his own? 

And his failure with Newbold, his failure 
with Westbury, they were but typical of the 
failure of his work at large. Of all the gifts 
of mystery that God gives to man, surely the 
greatest is the mystery of failure! Wisdom in- 
scrutable that commands work, yet enjoins fail- 
ure! Mystery of mysteries, that a burning love 
for that Love Incarnate born at Bethlehem, could 
not break through the flesh to solace a world 
a-thirst ! The Bishop had loved, yet he had failed 
to serve. He did not even know how to give 
peace, as from a chalice, to this harried soul be- 
fore him. 

The worn gray face, intent, gave small clue 
to the thoughts within. Always Newbold 

58 


THE CH^ISrm^S BISHOP 

watched, watched, waiting for a word. Which 
way would it swing, that word? His soul also 
was poised, waiting. 

The Bishop bowed his head upon his hand. 
He had never felt so utterly alone. Involun- 
tarily, from sheer force of habit belonging to all 
his moments of unbearable solitude, the Bishop’s 
thought turned to the Friend. He had always 
understood, would He understand now, despair 
at failure to God’s trust? 

Suddenly the Bishop’s eyes opened wide and 
strange. He saw a storm-scourged hill, a mob. 
Understand failure? What man had ever loved 
like the Nazarene? What man had ever failed 
in such transcendent loneliness? 

The room fell quiet as a sanctuary. Awed 
with understanding, the Bishop closed his eyes, 
to be alone. His thought said, All other things 
He has shared with me. He shares also this.” 

Quiet, long quiet, that at last grew a-throb 
with pulses. So many the mountains of Trans- 
figuration, and at the bottom always the tumult 
and the faithlessness. The mental habit of many 
years steadied the Bishop as he drew slowly back 

59 


THE CtmSTiM^S BISHOP 

to the actual : when some sorrow of his own grew 
too poignant to be borne, he always forced him- 
self to go forth to the person nearest at hand, 
compelling his mind to the other’s affairs. Such 
effort, although at first it might be so perfunc- 
tory that he was ashamed, ended in full sincerity. 
Too tired to speak now, he smiled over to New- 
bold his old sunny smile, meaning that all was 
well between them. 

The tension of Newbold’s watching snapped 
like a spent cord. There was a change upon his 
face, a change in his voice, “ Bishop, why did 
you come to me this morning? They must have 
told you downstairs that I did not wish to see 
anyone. Yet you came.” 

I had a gift to bring.” 

‘‘ For me?” 

“ Not now, I am afraid. Still I have no one 
else, lad, to leave it with. It is for Westbury.” 

‘‘What gift?” 

“ One I have been thinking of for a long time. 
You see Christmas always sets me dreaming, and 
in these last weeks I’ve been much shut in, so 
that I’ve had a good deal of time to look out of 
6o 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

my window and to send my thoughts up and 
down the streets. I suppose it is because I have 
been about so little of late that I failed to hear 
of the closing of the mission, although I knew 
you were worried about the funds. So I’ve been 
happy with my plan. You’ve listened to my 
dreams before,” the Bishop smiled his little quick, 
appealing smile, “ even though you haven’t al- 
ways — ” he broke off, a wistful twinkle of re- 
membrance in his eyes. I’m still an incorrigible 
visionary, you think, lad?” The twinkle died. 
“ Perhaps I am ! ” 

*‘No!” cried Newbold, ‘‘No! I — I would 
have helped to carry out all your dreams. Bishop, 
if I could, if they’d been practical. Why, 
Bishop,” Newbold smiled the first real smile of 
the morning, “ you’re irresistible as my Lois 
when you want things. Even Mrs. Hollister has 
to do what you want ! ” 

“ Even Mrs. Hollister ! ” repeated the Bishop 
wonderingly. “ But, of course, for she is my 
friend.” 

“ You understand Mrs. Hollister better than 
I do. Bishop,” Newbold murmured darkly, then 

6i: 


THE CHTiISTm<^S BISHOP 

could have bitten his lip, for he saw on the 
Bishop’s face the fine, controlled recoil that told 
Newbold he had once again said something no 
real Westburian would have said. Clumsy 
again, when he was watching himself all the 
time! Oh, if there was one thing Newbold en- 
vied the Bishop, it was his inalienable social 
grace ! 

The Bishop’s smile was strangely wrought of 
sun and sadness. To go back to my dream,” he 
suggested, “ so far from being prepared for the 
closing of the mission, I had actually been plan- 
ning its enlargement.” He grew a little hesi- 
tant and shy, You see I have a small private 
fortune, not very much, some sixty thousand. I 
have, as you know, no near relatives. I’m not 
much of a business man, as you are well aware, 
and I have also perhaps a foolish reluctance to 
leaving anything in the shape of a memorial, 
anything bearing my name, — yet it was here in 
Westbury, in St. John’s, and at the founding of 
the mission in the Southside sixty years ago, that 
there first came to me — the meaning of the 
Christian ministry.” A moment his eyes grew 
62 


THE CH%ISTm^S BISHOP 

dream-bright, as he continued, I’m so in the 
habit of trusting all money matters to you that 
I have simply had my will made out to you, with- 
out any stipulation as to the object — ” 

“ To me? ” 

‘‘ In trust,” said the Bishop, “ for Westbury.” 

To me!” 

“ I must trust you, lad ! ” 

Newbold’s eyes, round with amazement, 
dropped before the pure flame of the Bishop’s. 

“ I had thought,” the clear voice went on, 
‘‘ that you would be glad to have the manage- 
ment of this money for Westbury, because it 
was here in Westbury, and in St. John’s, and in 
work for the Southside, that you, too, twenty 
years ago, came to your first thoughts of the 
Christian ministry.” 

“ Yes,” muttered Newbold, ‘‘ twenty years 
ago ! ” His foot ceased to tap the floor. He 
sat straight, motionless, “ What, Bishop, was 
your idea, exactly, for the use of this sixty thou- 
sand?” 

“ My idea ^ — I — I suppose it’s impractical 
now — was what I called it in my mind, the 

63 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

House of Friendship. Not, of course, that I 
want it called that in reality. That’s, of course,’’ 
he said in quick deprecation, ‘‘ sentimental in 
sound, but that’s what I mean.” 

‘‘ Exactly what? ” probed Newbold. 

‘‘ You know,” the other appealed whimsically, 
“I left all the details to you even in my plans. 
I thought I’d just explain the spirit of it. A 
House of Friendship, that is a settlement house, 
in connection with the chapel in the Southside, 
a house open to everybody, to the mothers and 
fathers and the babies and the little girls and the 
newsboys, and open — still more open — to the 
members of St. John’s over here, on River 
Street, so that the mission and the church might 
learn, from each other, to be friends. I haven’t 
gone into the details, although I want to, one of 
these days, when my head gets a little clearer. 
The main thing was that you should under- 
stand.” 

“ And I am to understand that your will is 
made out to me, with no instructions as to the 
use of the money ? ” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

64 


THE CH%ISTEM^S BISHOP 

Does anyone know of your desire for the 
settlement house ? ” 

No one. You were the only one who needed 
to know.” 

Newbold looked straight at his visitor. Has 
it occurred to you, Bishop, that you are taking a 
great risk?” 

“ What do you mean, lad ? ” asked the Bishop 
wonderingly. 

Newbold laughed, a laugh that rang true with 
honest amusement. “ Well, hardly, as we both 
know, that I should make way with the money 
for my own ends, or that one cent of it shall be 
spent except for the object of your desire, 
but, — ” his face grew grave and dark, “ you im- 
ply, I think, something more. It is not merely 
the money that you leave in my charge. Bishop, 
but the work itself? ” 

“ I had always hoped, lad, to leave my work in 
your charge. In spirit, if not in actuality.” 

Do you hope so this morning ? ” 

‘‘ May I hope so, Murray? ” Once before, on 
the night of his ordination, the Bishop had called 
Newbold by his first name. 


6s 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

Newbold’s answer was as direct to the soul as 
the Bishop’s question, ‘‘ I don’t know ! ” Then 
sharp and querulous, How could I ? How can 
I?” 

The kindled hope on the Bishop’s face died 
like a quenched flame. In its stead slowly there 
grew in his eyes their great and brooding pity. 
“ Lad, you’re tired to the depths this morning, 
and I am fretting you with the thought of new 
responsibilities. Forgive me. I hope that in 
eighty-one years I’ve learned to listen. Sup- 
pose you do the talking now. What are some of 
the bothers back of this headache?” 

“ My head is the chief bother, back of all 
bothers! It won’t let me go on and I can’t 
stop!” Newbold sprang up and then reseated 
himself at his desk, sweeping a fret of papers 
aside so that some fell on the floor, then taking 
up a flexible paper cutter that he kept snapping 
in his hands while he swung the revolving chair 
slowly from side to side. “ The truth is, I’ve 
been going down hill ever since I came here eight 
years ago. The air of Westbury is knocking me 
to pieces.” 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

“ Yet it agreed with you during your other 
stay here, twenty odd years ago.” 

‘‘ I was a boy then ; I had a different 
body.” 

‘‘ And perhaps,” mused the Bishop, “ a differ- 
ent soul.” 

Oh, that! ” cried Newbold with a shrug, then, 
‘‘ Do you suppose if Fd had my health, Fd ever 
have let the vestry bully me into giving up the 
Southside Mission ! ” 

“Yet I used to think sometimes that opposi- 
tion was the breath of life to you. I wonder,” 
a flicker of whimsical humor in the blue eyes, 
“ if perhaps it would still be the breath of life to 
you, — if you tried it ! ” 

“ Can I fight a spirit in the air ? Can I fight, 
of all things, mere amusement at enthusiasm? 
Can I fight the impenetrable self-satisfaction of 
Westbury ? ” 

“Yet I thought you were one who loved 
Westbury!” 

“ I love it, yes ! And I hate it ! ” 

“ Yet Westbury has loved you and taken you 
in, as it once took me, also a stranger.” 

67 


THE CH%IS7m^S BISHOP 

** It has never taken me in ! Has Mrs. Hollis- 
ter ever taken me in ? ” 

‘‘ Newbold, may I ask,” the Bishop sought to 
be patient with a resentful child, “ whether Mrs. 
Hollister has ever shown you the slightest in- 
civility? ” 

‘‘ Never! ” Newbold pressed his lips together 
in a curious grim smile. He studied the paper- 
knife in his hands intently, Oh, no, I should not 
find fault with Westbury. It has given me what 
I wanted when I came here ;as a boy, to be rector 
of St. John’s. I did not perceive then the price 
a man pays to be rector of — a St. John’s.” 
What price ? ” 

‘‘ The price of his freedom! There’s no way 
to please the congregation of St. John’s, except 
to please them! I’ve learned the trick of that! 
Ah, commend me to the clergy as latter-day cour- 
tiers ! ” It was sentences such as these, applied 
in the chancel to his congregation, not to him- 
self, that his people so enjoyed in his sermons, 
feeling him at one with them in a comfortable, 
workaday cynicism. Newbold’s words were 
68 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

pressed through closed teeth as he concluded, 
“ But I despise my people ! ” 

Your people of the Southside, too? ’’ 

“ They ! Oh, no ! Poor wretches ! They 
are honest! I understand them! But it is the 
strain of trying to understand St. John’s that is 
killing me ! ” his hand went impatiently to his 
head. 

Serene and low the Bishop’s words, “ Then why 
not go to your people of the Southside?” 

“ And leave St. John's?** 

‘‘If you do not understand the people of St. 
John’s. If it is killing you.” 

“ They would think me a madman ! ” 

“ Does it matter, what they think ? ” 

“It has mattered,” Newbold replied grimly, 
“ a good bit, for eight years ! ” 

“ And where has that road brought us, lad? ” 
Silence. 

Low, incisive against the stillness, the Bishop’s 
voice, “ Verily you have had your reward.” 

Newbold’s hands dropped to the desk motion- 
less. 


69 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

“ Yet even so, amid the praise of men, there 
was one man whose praise you never had/’ 
Newbold lifted his eyes in interrogation. 
“Yourself!” the Bishop concluded. 

Suddenly Newbold’ s face, set as marble, 
puckered unbearably. “ There’s someone else, 
too!” Forcing the words out, he quoted, “‘I 
don’t care if you are a minister. I’m your son, 
and I know you’re a hypocrite!’ How’s that,” 
he was furious at the catch in his throat, “ how’s 
that — for a speech — from an only son — on 
Christmas morning ! ” 

“ It is not true, Murray ! ” 

“ You are perhaps the only man who believes 
in me. Bishop.” 

“ It is because I have known you longest.” 

“ I am afraid the truth is that your namesake, 
my son, has the sharper eyes, as well as the 
sharper tongue. A son’s estimate of his father 
is doubtless the correct one. Yet it’s an ugly 
word — hypocrite! I confess it drew blood, and 
knocked me out for the day.” He looked oddly 
sheepish, boyish, in his confession, in spite of all 
the signs of torturing nerves upon a body too vig- 
70 


THE CH%ISTm<^S BISHOP 

orous to take ill-health with any poise or patience. 
‘‘ You see I got up this morning feeling rather 
out of sorts. I hadn’t slept since twelve. I’ve 
been dreading the services more and more lately. 
I’m haunted by the idea of collapsing suddenly 
before the eyes of my congregation — those eyes ! 

“ Then breakfast was late. If only, only, 
only,” his heavy fist came down lightly but tensely 
upon the blotter, “ the women would not look as 
if they expected a scene under such circumstances. 
I had meant to hold my tongue. But I didn’t. 
Nobody said anything, so I fancy I continued to 
fill in the pauses. Harry sat with a face that 
made me want to knock him down. It was after- 
wards that he spoke, a full hour afterwards, 
when I had managed to pull myself together and 
was on my way to church. He stopped me in 
the hall with ‘ Going to the communion, father ? 
After making mother and Lois feel like that ? ’ 
Then he added that little remark about hypocrisy, 
I came back upstairs, here. Presently you came. 
A highly successful Christmas! A merry family 
group, do you not think so. Bishop ? ” 

The Bishop had closed his eyes. This was the 

71 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

kind of thing that hurt his head, and he must 
keep his head clear, must ! “ Christmas is not 

half over,’’ he said, starting at the thought of the 
morning slipping by, and the church, so near, 
calling to him, ‘‘ There is half of Christmas 
left!” 

Half a day in which to teach my son to re* 
spect me ! ” 

“ But this son is Harry. So it will not take so 
long.” 

‘‘ Harry is hard ! ” 

‘‘ He is generous ! ” 

“ He never forgives ! ” 

Have you ever asked him to forgive ? ” 

‘‘My boy! No! I know him! He knows 
me ! ” 

“I think perhaps,^* tfie Bishop said slowly, 
“you will never know Harry, nor he you, until 
you have asked of him forgiveness. It’s one of 
the test things, forgiveness. The boy will meet 
it. He has nobility, Harry, by inheritance.” 

“ From his mother, yes.” 

“From his father, no less.” 

72 


THE CH%IST{M<^S BISHOP 

They are their mother’s children, both of 
them,” Newbold murmured wearily. 

The Bishop’s face flashed radiant. His right 
hand lifted in a quick gesture. ‘‘ Can any man 
say anything more beautiful than that? ” 

“ You mean,” stammered Newbold, “ what? ” 
“ I think I only meant,” hesitated the Bishop, 
“ that I felt just that way about my child, and her 
mother. They belonged to each other, not to me. 
I was only fit to try to take care of them.” 

“ I have not taken,” said Newbold heavily, 
“ much care of mine! ” 

‘‘ Oh, lad, lad,” said the Bishop, don’t waste 
that privilege. It never — it never has grown 
easy — for me to live without it.” 

Newbold’s words came in a whisper, to him- 
self, ‘‘ She does not expect it now. Perhaps she 
does not even wish it I ” 

The Bishop leaned slightly forward in his 
chair. “ Newbold,” he said firmly, ‘‘ between you 
and Harry there must be words, as between men. 
But, for Lois and the mother, downstairs, have 
you anything to do but to stretch out your hand ? 

73 


THE CH%lSTiM^S BISHOP 

It is one of their mysteries, that women always 
understand better without words.” 

Newbold dropped his forehead on interlaced 
fingers that concealed his face. He was long 
silent. His hands dropped at last from a face 
haggard, but a-shine with boyishness. 

“ Bishop,” he said, “ you’ve made me feel a 
whole lot better! ” 

“ I am glad ! ” For the first time in their talk 
the Bishop’s lip showed its slight palsied trem- 
bling. 

‘‘ You always did make me feel better. It is 
your secret.” Then a shadow fell, But how? 
Why ? ” the shadow darkened. “ I don’t deserve 
it! ” 

The Bishop studied the darkened face with a 
sad keenness. “ You have not told me all the 
worries this morning, have you? What else?” 

Newbold stirred uneasily, then brightened a 
little with reminiscence, “ Odd, how little things 
take one back sometimes. The mere way we are 
sitting at this moment, — you. Bishop, in that deep 
chair with your hands on the arms, and I here at 
the desk, — it makes me feel as if you might 
74 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

take up the dictating and I my shorthand at any 
instant.’^ 

“ It does not seem to me so very long ago/’ 

“ It strikes me now, that you were pretty pa- 
tient. I was a raw enough youth when I first 
came to Westbury.” 

“ A bit truculent in argument sometimes,” ad- 
mitted the other, smiling. ‘‘You bowled over 
some of our best doctors in theology. There 
wasn’t much you were afraid of.” 

“ On the contrary, I was afraid of everything. 
It was the first time I had ever been afraid, too. 
Westbury frightened me.” 

“ Yet I knew then that you would live to make 
Westbury proud of you. I believe I never had 
such hopes for any young man as I had for you.” 

“ And now ? ” 

“And now?” The Bishop turned the ques- 
tion back upon the man. 

“ And now,” said Newbold bitterly, “ where 
are the hopes?” 

“ Exactly where they were before. Don’t 
you know, lad, that we old men are incorrigible 
in hopes ? ” 


75 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 
“I know that you are, Bishop, incorrigible 
in hope, — and in patience.” 

The Bishop’s eyes narrowed to fine scrutiny, 
‘‘ Have I then, do you feel, something to be 
patient about ? ” 

Newbold shot a sharp glance, searching the 
Bishop’s meaning. They both waited. At last 
Newbold, leaning back in his chair lifted steady 
eyes. “ Since we’re talking this morning. Bishop, 
about the things on my mind, there are, as you 
seem to guess, more things. I’d be glad to get 
them all clear with you this morning. It’s a 
relief to talk, no matter where we come out. 
I’m afraid, that perhaps you haven’t always un- 
derstood, Bishop, my apparent opposition to 
your wishes on some occasions that perhaps we 
both remember.” 

“We both remember, yes ! ” 

At the tone Newbold started, grew more vehe- 
ment, “ Oh, if you could but understand. Bishop! 
Why, sometimes, as I have stood between your 
desires on the one hand and what I knew to be 
those of the majority of the clergy and laity on 
76 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

the other, what I knew to be necessary to the 
prosperity of the diocese and the church, I have 
verily felt myself between two fires.” 

“ Or between two masters ? ” 

Nervous irritation fretted Newbold’s forehead. 
‘‘ Yes, I suppose, that, too, in a way, from your 
point of view. Bishop. The point of view of — 
well — of the apostles, perhaps ! ” He hesitated, 
but then grew defensive, “ In practical applica- 
tion, Bishop, it is impossible that the policies of 
primitive Christianity should prevail in their pris- 
tine simplicity in the church to-day ! ” 

The Bishop was long silent, the white profile 
of his far-away face clear before Newbold’s 
watching eyes. Newbold spoke at last in anxious 
apology. “ You understand, therefore, I hope, 
Bishop, my policy, as I understand yours? I 
wanted you to understand.” 

‘‘ Why do you want me to understand ? ” 
There was something very strange in those 
far, far blue eyes, so old, so ageless. Newbold 
gazed into them, curiously compelled. “ Perhaps 
you know best the answer to that. Bishop.” 

77 


THE CH%IS7[Mo^S WSHOP 

A wistful smile touched the Bishop’s lips, 

Perhaps I do, lad. For it has been a long 
while that we have been friends.” 

“ You know, Bishop, surely,” the man cried 
out, “ how I feel toward you, — in spite of — 
mere policies ? ” 

The Bishop nodded slightly, “ Yes, yes,” then 
looked at the other with a larger thought. “ But, 
Newbold, I have no policy, I have found only one 
reading to the riddle of life, and I preach it. 
There is no policy in that, I think, is there ? ” 

‘‘ I think,” said Newbold, quietly, '' that you 
are the only man I have ever seen solve that rid- 
dle.” 

“ I have not solved it, Murray, if I have not 
given you the clew.” 

At that unbearable sadness Murray Newbold 
cried out, “No, Bishop, no! If I have failed, 
it is not your failure ! Faith such as yours, life 
such as yours, — it is impossible to men like me. 
It is not for us.” 

“ I always thought it was for all.” There was 
a long pause. “And it is. I have not known 
how to show you, that is all.” The Bishop bowed 

78 


THE CH%IS7(M<^S BISHOP 

his head in silence, murmuring, ‘‘ But I wanted 
you,” again a long pause, “ as you would want 
peace for your boy ! ” 

The next words were not to Newbold, but 
Newbold knew to Whom they were spoken, ‘‘ Yet 
I ask so much! We can never share with Him, 
we who ask fulfillment 1 ” Then the Bishop 
started sharply from revery, ‘‘ The service ! I 
must go. It is too late, perhaps, already for the 
communion.” 

“ There is just time. But, Bishop, will you 
go ? There is so much still to say. Stay a little 
while!” 

“ What I have failed to say in twenty years, 
can I say now ? In a little while ? ” 

“Say it!” pleaded Newbold, “say it!” 

Like a physical need, like hunger, the Bishop 
felt the blind desire to feel the chancel quiet 
about him, to offer once more to his people the 
cup of Christ. Yet before him here and now, in 
this silent room, a soul a-thirst. 

“ What is it, lad, that you want from me ? ” 

“You believe it. Bishop?” Newbold burst 
forth. 


79 


7HE CH%IS7(M^S BISHOP 

“ What?’’ 

‘‘ What we preach. I never knew any man to 
believe it as you do. How ? ” 

“How otherwise?” 

“ I never knew any other man who had found 
peace. Howf ” 

“ It is hard,” hesitated the Bishop, “ for me 
to talk about these things — with you. It is 
hard for me to understand,” his tired eyes wid- 
ened with the effort to understand. “You mean 
with the Story ever before you, that yet you can- 
not see — Him ? ” 

“ I see nothing. I’ve come to a pretty dark 
place in my career, successful, I suppose it would 
be called.” 

“ Since I’ve come to be old, I find I don’t always 
call things by their right names. Success and 
failure, I don’t always know how to name them.” 

“ But you have success ! ” 

“No — no, you have showed me clearly to- 
day that I have failure.” 

“ / have shown you ? ” 

“ Don’t you remember that I came here with 
a hope ? ” 

8o 


7HB CHTilSTiM^^S BISHOP 
“ Which I have destroyed ? But, Bishop, the 
work you describe is impossible to me. You 
know, no one better, what I am. The amazing 
thing is that knowing, you still chose me. Why, 
such a work requires a courage, a conviction, a 
vision such as — ’’ 

You have not courage?’’ 

‘‘ Not, not courage of your sort, now.” 

“ I believe it is courage of your sort, not my 
sort, that Westbury needs, now.” 

‘‘ It would mean a complete facing about. 
That would surprise,” he smiled grimly, a few 
people! I don’t know that I should really mind 
surprising them.” Then his face again clouded. 
“ The Southside would find me out. Bishop. I 
have not the vision. I don’t know that I thought 
it necessary, originally. It’s been, however, of 
late years, a bit persistent, the advantage, say, of 
believing what one says one believes.” The caus- 
tic tone changed to intensity, “ If I were capable. 
Bishop, of your faith ! ” 

The Bishop studied him wistfully, “ And yet,” 
he mused, ‘‘ it seems to me so simple, faith, so ^ 
unavoidable, like sunshine. No man could have' 

8i 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

made the sun. Just so, it seems as if no man 
could have invented — that Beauty ! ’’ 

‘‘ Unfortunately most people don’t see things 
quite so readily. As for me, I believe I’m in- 
capable of religious vision.” 

The Bishop hesitated, thoughtful, then quick 
words came, “ But not incapable of action. I’ve 
always believed that there is need perhaps for 
soldiers as well as seers. There’s the fighter 
somewhere within you, isn’t there ? ” 

I sometimes feel,” Newbold admitted, “ as 
if there were as much fight left in me as there is 
in Harry to-day. One sees,” he mused, “ some 
pretty queer things when one looks inside.” Then 
once more he caught up the paper cutter in rest- 
less fingers, But that won’t last. I seem to 
see a thing or two while you’re here, seem to 
be more up to — several things. It will all come 
back fast enough when I’m alone. You’ll carry 
this quiet away with you. Bishop.” 

‘‘ I wish I could leave it with you ! Couldn’t 
I, somehow ? ” 

‘‘ You couldn’t, could you, put me back twenty 
82 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

years, and give me another try at it all? No, no, 
I don’t see the way to that ! ” 

Do it! Don’t wait to see it! Vision! ” the 
Bishop paused. “ It is perhaps true that it is not 
given to all to see, to feel, to know. Yet those 
who do not see can act! Perhaps — perhaps — 
it is more beautiful and more brave to work with- 
out the vision! We are the stewards, we call 
ourselves that, you and I — God puts a cup into 
our hands. He doesn’t say, ‘ Believe,’ or ‘ See.’ 
He only says, ‘ Give ’ ! ” 

‘‘ But it is as you give. Bishop! ” 

Their eyes met long. Then the tense pause 
slackened. Murray Newbold knew best his feel- 
ing for the Bishop when he felt the child gazing 
from the faded eyes and speaking in his pleading 
voice. 

‘‘ Murray, will you build, then, the House of 
Friendship, for Westbury?” 

Silence. Newbold had bowed his forehead 
upon his interlaced fingers. His face was con- 
cealed except the strong jaw, and the lips, motion- 
less, curiously refined by their tight pressure. 

83 


THE CH%IST€M^S BISHOP 

Moments went by. Within closed eyelids New- 
bold saw his future. He saw the past as if the 
issues between himself and the Bishop had been 
always mounting to this final issue. He saw 
himself, objective, detached as a painting. So 
taut were all his senses on this morning that it 
seemed to him that he should always see the 
Bishop’s face looking upon him just as he had 
closed his eyes against it, there across the desk. 
It was a moment of such intense seeing as makes 
promises impossible. The minutes went, one 
after one. He could not have spoken a word. 

A touch brushed Newbold’s shoulder, “ I am 
going now, lad,” the Bishop said. Sudden and 
clamorous, the noon-day chimes, at the close of 
the service, rang out, as the study door closed. 


84 


PART III 


T he air of the blue Christmas noon was 
sparkling clear, yet the Bishop's steps were 
groping. His blue eyes were vague as he smiled 
in response to motor cars that flashed by, or car- 
riages that passed with a brisk jingle of harness. 
Groups, lightly laughing in the Christmas sun, 
brushed by the old familiar figure in the cape 
overcoat, but they seemed strangers. In the 
sharp daylight after that dusky study, the Bishop 
trod an unknown street, as wistful and alone as 
a lost child. Was this his Westbury, where none 
of this gay Christmas throng gave thought to 
those swarming tenements at the bending of the 
river? An old man's life, what was it, against 
this hard and happy current? A smile, briefly 
bitter, darkened the Bishop's face; he was old 
and would pass, having given his Westbury 
nothing I 

Yet all the time his feet, making for reassur- 

85 


THE CHTilSrmzHS BISHOP 

ance and relief, were bearing him toward Lucy 
Hollister’s welcome, with the homing instinct of 
a child that knows one door its own. Across the 
Bishop’s weariness flashed the thought that in 
the afternoon Lucy would let him lie down for 
a while. 

Lucy’s door opened wide to the Bishop. He 
felt once again, as the closed latch shut him in 
from that vague and puzzling street, the spell of 
the wide hall that cleft the house, and of grave 
old walls showing at the opposite end a picture 
of the river through broad glass. The Bishop 
handed his coat and hat to the brown old foot- 
man, his friend of many years, then his head 
cleared happily at the sound of a soft rustle and 
the tapping of light decisive slippers. Lucy’s 
hand was in his. 

Good Christmas, Henry,” she said crisply, 
and led him in to the drawing-room fire. 

‘‘ I was worried,” she went on. “ You were not 
at church, nor at the house when I drove there 
afterward.” 

‘‘The service?” he inquired anxiously. 

“ It was not Christmas without your sermon. 

86 


THE CH%lS7m^S BISHOP 

Otherwise it was — well, a service. For we 
missed our rector, too ! ” 

He is ill.’’ 

“ Is he? ” inquired Lucy with musing empha- 
sis. ‘‘ And of what sickness? Too much West- 
bury?” 

But at the Bishop’s troubled glance her tone 
changed instantly, “ But you yourself, Henry, 
have you been, are you, ill ? ” 

“ Not now, not here. It is really Christmas 
here.” 

“ I am glad,” she answered ; then, with an un- 
perceived catch of her breath, “if it is really 
Christmas — here!” 

“ How many Christmas dinners is it, Lucy ? ” 

“ I do not count them,” to herself she added, 
looking at him, “ those that are over ! ” 

They fell to talking of the Christmases that 
were over. The Bishop did not know that from 
time to time he leaned his head back, closing his 
lids, and was silent while minutes ticked slowly 
and Lucy watched him intently. It was comfort- 
ing when he opened his eyes still to see her sit- 
ting there, so alert, so alive. 


87 


7HE CH%IS7CM^S BISHOP 

“ So many Christmases ! ” he murmured. 

“ I neither own to them/’ she answered, nor 
yet, not own ! ” 

Despite her many Christmases, it was with only 
a slight stiffening of the sinuous grace of her 
girlhood that Lucy moved at the Bishop’s side, to 
the dining-room, to the mid-afternoon holiday 
dinner of Westbury habit. Lucy kept every 
custom Westbury had had in her youth, and she 
made other people keep such custom, too ; slight, 
elusive, dominant, as she was, in her great house 
by Westbury ’s river. They passed from stately 
course to course exactly as they had done on that 
Christmas when Henry Collinton and his wife had 
dined with Lucy when Annie was a bride, and 
still earlier, the Bishop could remember dining 
at that table, when he was a college lad and the 
two cousins, girls, Annie the dark one, and Lucy, 
elfin and amber-tinted. The room was the same, 
the china and the silver the same. Beyond the 
two long windows ran the gray loop of the river. 
Many a time long ago, they had floated all three 
in a boat on that spangled river. The wall paper 
was the same, put on by French hands many a 
88 


THE CHTilSTCM^S BISHOP 

year ago. Round and round it raced a French 
sporting scene, trim-waisted gentlemen that rode 
to the hunt by wood and stream, and ladies that 
joined them for the huntsman’s repast, gay pic- 
nickers all, still vivid in color. 

It was all the same, for in Westbury things 
did continue blessedly unchanged. Lucy was un- 
changed, for all the long wearing of her widow’s 
black. The yellow still showed in the snowy 
gloss of her carefully arranged hair. Age had 
slightly rimmed her eyes with red, but the will-o’- 
the-wisp still danced in them. Her mouth, net- 
ted by wrinkles, was hardly more finely whimsi- 
cal than in girlhood. As of old, when in earnest 
talk, she dropped her chin, still clearly chiseled, 
to a delicate white claw of a hand, flashing from 
a fall of black chiffon. Lucy treated age as she 
did people : like them, age could not tell whether 
it had penetrated her delicate aloofness. 

To the Bishop, room and river and woman were 
still the same. Spent to the uttermost as he knew 
himself to be to-day, Lucy’s indomitable vitality 
quickened him with sharp hope; perhaps, after 
all, there was much he could still leave to Lucy! 

89 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

But not yet for him the outpouring, as ever, into 
Lucy’s ear. That would come, but not yet! 
How happy, now, shut in by that race round and 
round the walls of those merry picnickers, to 
pluck, as it were a Christmas gift from a tree, 
one hour in which they should still be boy and 
girl together. 

As they talked, two faces looked over their 
shoulders ; over the Bishop’s a boy’s with brown 
hair flung back, with eager listening eyes, and a 
mouth that spoke poetry and as instantly laughed 
out in merry mockery of it, a face that, clear as 
water, was all the play of a mobile brain; and 
close by Lucy’s head, another in a white bonnet, 
green-ribboned and green-leaved, from which, 
framed in red-gold curls, looked out a tinted 
cameo face, with green-blue eyes, mocking and 
mysterious. To-day, Lucy’s body was still 
fragile and unbroken, as in girlhood, and for 
all she had married and borne four children, her 
soul still went unfettered as when she was a girl. 
But age had charred the Bishop’s face to fine 
white ashes, in which the blue eyes burned, lum- 
inous and inward. 

90 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

‘‘ Henry/’ mused Lucy, “ the poetry never came 
back to you, did it? Do you ever write nowa- 
days, ever snare a little wild, singing poem now ? ” 

“ The verses come to me sometimes still, but 
not near enough to catch, or to wish to catch, per- 
haps. I do sometimes see the pictures still, this 
very morning, for instance, and I hear rhythms; 
but, no, I have never written since — since Nan 
went.” 

He was silent a moment, lips tightening, then 
lights began to gleam on his face, with the fa- 
miliar pleasure of thinking aloud to Lucy. ‘‘ But 
perhaps I do not write because I can no longer 
distinguish between poetry and prose, in life. 
That is boy’s work, really, to see the sharp out- 
lines of things that afterwards, for us, seem to 
overlap, to interweave. Poetry and prose, which 
is which? Just so the distinction between the 
sacred and the secular, easy enough at twenty, 
not at eighty: then the two were clear to me 
as bars of sun and shadow on a pavement; 
now the sun-bars would seem all softened with 
shadow, and the shadow all shot through with 
sun. Just so the distinction between the divine 

91 


THE CH^ISTDA^S BISHOP 

and the human, God and man, where shall one 
separate the two? Can anyone say. Just so 
far, — ” here the Bishop, all eager explanation, 
drew the figure of a cross upon the leather arm- 
chair, keeping an ivory finger tip upon the spot, 
“ just so far shall God stoop to man, just so far 
man rise to God ! Oh ! no, no I ” He erased the 
imaginary cross with a quick brushing of his 
long hand, ‘‘ life is not like that, not sharp dis- 
tinctions, it is all interwoven, interwoven! 

“ So with poetry and prose. How can I pos- 
sibly write,’' he laughed, “ if I can’t tell them 
apart? Why, nowadays I seem to get meshed 
in my own metres. No, I’m no true poet,” he 
shook his head ruefully, ‘‘ if I can’t tell whether 
a poem is inside of me or outside of me, whether 
I am it, or it is I! No, old age is the time for 
seeing, not for singing.” He paused, thinking, 
“ But I verily believe I like the seeing better 
than the singing.” He looked over to her in the 
old, quick boyish way, “ Don’t you ? ” 

Lucy gave her little humorous shrug, inimitably 
slight, “ O Henry, forgive me, I believe old age 
for me is all plain prose.” 

92 


THE CH^ISrm^S BISHOP 

He laughed his silvery old laugh, in pure 
amusement, And that from you, who know 
nothing whatever about old age ! ’’ 

I ! I know everything about old age ! ” 

“ Prove it ! he rallied, prove it ! Prove 
that you know one thing more about old age to- 
day than you did when you were twenty ! ” 

Her face, still beautiful despite its subtlety of 
lines, grew strange, and her humorous lips deli- 
cately mocking, ‘‘No, I don’t believe I could — 
prove — that I know anything more about old 
age to-day — that I did when I was twenty ! ” 
“There,” he cried gaily, “you admit it?” 

“ Admit what, my friend ? ” 

“ That you are still a girl ! ” 

“ Yet, a grandmother? ” 

“ One can never somehow remember that,” his 
gaze upon her changed to puzzled thought. 

“ Yet I am a grandmother, a model mother and 
grandmother. I’d have you remember ! ” 

“ It is very strange,” he mused, “ mine, who 
are gone, seem almost nearer than yours, who 
are here. I sometimes have wondered why you 
never choose to go to them at Christmas-time. 

93 


THE CHTilSTDA^S BISHOP 

Although it is a happy thing for me that you do 
not/’ 

“ I prefer my Christmas to myself ! ” 

“ But isn’t it lonely ? ” 

“ Lonely, when you have never failed me, 
Henry! ” she laughed. ‘‘ You know I’m a stickler 
for old customs. I can’t change old friends for 
new grandchildren.” 

Grandchildren I ” he shook his head. “ No, 
it is impossible to believe in them! You seem to 
me still Lucy Dwight of the long ago,” a twinkle 
danced in his eyes, and aren’t you ? ” 

‘‘ Who can answer that question but Henry 
Collinton, of the long ago? Who else remem- 
bers ? ” 

They both remembered, and fell silent, joining 
thoughts. 

At length the Bishop, shining-eyed, exclaimed, 
“ Those were great days, when I came here to 
college ! ” 

Great days, yes, when I — when we — 
taught you the town. You thought everything 
so wonderful that you almost made me believe 
Westbury wonderful, too.” 

94 


THE CH%ISTiM^S BISHOP 

‘‘ And didn’t you, don’t you, believe it won- 
derful? ” 

She looked at him quietly, But Westbury is 
my own,” she answered. 

“ And isn’t it,” he pleaded, my own, too, 
by this time?” 

“Yours?” she looked at him with far, intent 
eyes, then before his wide child-gaze, troubled, 
her smile flashed reassurance, “ Yours, surely, 
Henry ! ” again she fell thoughtful, “ yet it de- 
pends a little on what you mean ! ” 

“ Westbury has been mine,” he maintained, 
and then, not confident, “ and Westbury has not 
changed, has it, Lucy ? ” 

She was silent. 

“ It has not changed, Lucy ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no, Henry,” she comforted him, 
“ How ? Where ? Look about and see ! ” 

“ Once it sent more men forth into the church 
than any other place in all the country. Will 
it, do you believe, continue to do that?” 

“Westbury is still churchly! Look at us! 
Westbury still goes to church. I myself set the 
example.” 


95 


THE CH%ISTOA^S BISHOP 

‘‘ Westbury always has followed your ex- 
ample,” the Bishop answered; again he felt a 
start of hope, but still postponed in this pleasant 
lighter hour the full revelation of his morning’s 
anxiety. 

“ Westbury will always follow my example, 
Henry, just so long as I give it its head. It is a 
triumph, is it not,” her lips puckered whimsically, 
‘‘ for an old lady to lead a town by a string? If 
I cared for the triumph! Not to let Westbury 
get away from me, that has been at least an ab- 
sorbing pastime. I have spent my life trying to 
keep Westbury the Westbury of my youth!” 
Quizzical, darting gleams showed in her eyes. 

‘‘ There was no more beautiful way to spend 
your life,” the Bishop answered. 

Lucy’s face changed, old age dropped over it 
like a veil, from which her eyes looked forth, 
strange. 

“ I, too,” the Bishop answered, “ have wished 
to spend my life in keeping Westbury the West- 
bury of my youth. It seemed so beautiful to me ! 
People were already beginning to be in a hurry 
in other places, but they still had time to be kind, 
96 


THE CH%ISTOA^S BISHOP 

h€re. They were already locking themselves into 
classes in other places, but they still had time to 
be friends, rich with poor, rich with rich, here. 
You remember the mission, Lucy?’’ 

She started, glancing at him with quick, cul- 
prit look, which he, lost in dreams, did not ob- 
serve, continuing, Westbury was a place of 
beautiful friendship, a place to make a young man 
dream dreams.” 

Very low she whispered, ‘‘ Your dreams, 
Henry, not Westbury’s ! ” 

‘‘ It has not changed, has it, Lucy ? ” 

She did not answer at first, then a smile, elusive, 
sweet, brushed her lips and was gone, “ No, 
Henry!” 

For how could it,” he burst out joyously, 
“ how could it, when you have not changed, and 
you arc Westbury ! ” 

“ I am Westbury? ” 

‘‘ Yes ! ” he answered, ‘‘ yes ! ” 

‘‘ Have you always thought that, Henry ? ” 

I believe so, yes.” 

But beneath his clear, smiling gaze, the witch 
lights gleamed in her eyes, I wonder if you will 

97 


THE CH%IST[McAS BISHOP 

always think so, Henry ! But his words seemed 
to have made her inattentive, restless, so that it 
was at length almost abruptly that she rose. She 
turned an instant toward the picture framed by 
the window. 

‘‘ How you love this town, Henry ! ” 

‘‘ It is my piece of God's world," he answered 
with that simple reverence that could startle, 
then he stopped before turning away from the 
table, “ May I ? " he asked permission, as he 
picked up a sprig of holly. ‘‘ We've had none at 
the house, and you remember how Annie loved 
holly." 

‘‘Yes," Lucy answered, “I remember — An- 
nie's holly." 

The Bishop still kept the spray of crimson 
berries in his hand when they had crossed the 
hall into the library, where the fire sprang high 
and where beyond the twin windows that matched 
those of the dining-room, the river had turned 
to slaty gray below the dulling eastern sky. 
The light in the room was quite clear, but yet 
the Bishop, in the dizziness that followed his ris- 
ing and walking from the dining-room, groped 
98 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

for a chair, and sank into it awkwardly, leaning 
back a moment with shut eyes. For the instant 
his clear old face looked withered, and his hands 
upon the chair-arms hung lax. 

Lucy was still standing against the fire glow, 
slight, vivid, imperious. 

“ Henry!” 

The Bishop opened vague eyes. 

“ I can’t let you look like that, Henry, to- 
day!” 

The Bishop smiled, “ I’m a bit tired. I’ve just 
remembered it. You had made me forget it, as 
usual, made me forget both the tiredness and some 
other things. They come back upon me now. 
I’ve had a rather rough morning of it, to tell the 
truth.” 

‘‘ Tell me about it,” she said, sitting down. 

“ I’ve been hearing things I didn’t want to 
hear, and believing things I didn’t want to be- 
lieve, and trying to do things I couldn’t do, all 
morning. It seems a pretty long time since to- 
day began. Oh, I was going to do great things 
to-day when I got up ! ” 

But the day is not over.” 


99 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 
“ That is just it,” he answered. My day is 
over ! ” 

‘'No, no, it must never be over! You must 
never speak like that 1 Why even I — ” she 
broke off, “ but you, Henry ! Who were always 
such a boy for hoping! You mustn’t stop; I’ll 
never let you ! ” 

He looked at her with a grave, far gaze, “ It 
would be a Christmas gift that I need, Lucy, if 
to-day you gave me hope. You are the only per- 
son who can ! ” ' 

“ What has gone wrong, Henry ? ” 

“ It was only that I wanted to give Westbury 
a Christmas present, and Westbury would not 
have it.” 

“ Who, pray, had the right to say so ? ” 

“ Newbold.” 

“Newbold! He! What rights has he in 
Westbury, may I ask? ” 

The Bishop’s glance was startled and penetrat- 
ing, “ Has he none, Lucy ? ” 

She caught back her words sharply, saying 
merely, “No right to hurt you, Henry, that is all. 
But tell me about the Christmas present to West- 
100 



As before, he knocked, all eager, and again opening doors flashed 
ruddy on the night See page 146 





THE CH%ISTm^S WSHOP 

bury. It is some new philanthropic scheme of 
yours, I suppose. Tell me about it, for you know 
you might offer your Christmas present to me. 
Try whether I’ll take it, if I am Westbury.” 

His face broke aflame, ‘‘ You will? ” he cried, 
“ I believe that you can ! ” 

‘‘Tell me!” she repeated, dropping her chin 
upon her white bodkin fingers, and fixing her 
eyes upon the beauty of his face. 

The two clear, pale old faces looked forth at 
each other across a space, while slowly there 
drew in about them the mystery of the dusk. 
Athwart the gathering twilight, the Bishop’s voice 
fell musical and clear. 

“ The day didn’t go very well, not till I got 
here to you. I got up feeling a bit shaky. I’m 
going to treat myself to that couch over there 
presently. Perhaps if my head had been clearer 
I might have seen better how to do what I tried 
to do to-day. But I’m afraid the real trouble 
goes deeper, and dates farther back. Christmas 
day sometimes throws a light back over the other 
days and years. I haven’t done what might 
have been done with all the years that have been 


lOI 


THE CH%IS7[M.AS BISHOP 

granted me. I see that to-day. And now it is 
too late, isn’t it? ” 

“ What has happened to-day ? 

“ Nothing has happened but knowledge, per- 
haps, knowledge to which I have forced myself 
to be blind. But in the light of Christmas I 
had to see, that’s all. And so I suppose I’m a lit- 
tle discouraged, and need to be bolstered up, as 
you can. It’s a good thing for me that you’ve 
never had time to grow old, Lucy. For it’s no 
fun,” his smile flashed, then fell as suddenly, 
“ this being old.” 

She fought against his growing seriousness, 
“ I’ve had to stay young, Henry, to keep you 
from growing old. So don’t go and be old all of 
a sudden to-day,” — she forced her tone to even- 
ness, ‘‘ not to-day of all days ! I will have to- 
day ! ” 

“ I wanted to-day, too,” he answered, “ but 
I’ve had to give up what I wanted, so far, 
twice.” 

“Who, exactly, is the trouble, Henry?” 

“ Newbold.” 

He paused so long that Lucy asked with the 
102 


7HE CHTUSim^S BISHOP 

faintest frown of weariness, “ Well, and what 
has that young man done to-day ? ” 

‘‘Young, he is that, certainly! I half forgot 
it, young and therefore, — ” again he stopped, 
but his eyes were kindled. 

“ No, not ‘ therefore," "" Lucy answered keenly, 
“ if you mean by that that he is still young 
enough to improve."" 

“ Not with help?"" 

“ Whose?"" 

The Bishop hesitated, eyes intent, searching 
hers, then answered, “ Westbury’s, for Westbury 
has hurt him."" 

“ Will he profit by Westbury’s help if he has 
not profited by yours ? ’" 

The Bishop mused, frankly anxious, puzzled, 
“ I had been thinking that if Westbury had hurt 
him, just for that reason perhaps, Westbury — 
could also help him, and would."" 

“ Oh, Henry, Henry,"" she shook her head with 
pursed, humorous lips, “you talk in abstract 
terms. But Westbury is no abstraction. ‘ West- 
bury could help him." Exactly what do you 
mean? For who, pray, is Westbury?"" 


103 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

The Bishop’s gaze met hers ; there was humor 
in his eyes as in hers, but also something deeper, 
something watchful, strange. 

Oh,” she laughed, “ I remember. I am 
Westbury! Do you mean, Henry Collinton, 
that I am to help this Newbold of yours? That 
I am to make a gentleman of him, if you 
couldn’t ? ” 

But at her words the Bishop’s face grew stern, 
“No, I have utterly failed to make him anything 
that I wished. But it is arrogant, perhaps, this 
hoping to make anybody anything. Yet how 
could I help hoping? He was a splendid boy, 
and I had no son.” 

In that stern, brooding silence, Lucy said at 
length, “ Don’t mind too much, Henry. Remem- 
ber you idealize — persons and — towns. He 
was always out of place here, that is all. He 
could never belong here.” 

The Bishop turned his head in the old quick 
boyish way, “ But could he not have a place in 
Westbury, if Westbury would make a place for 
him?” 


104 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 

Incorrigible one! ” she smiled. “ How? ” 
Stern age in judgment on his failure left the 
Bishop’s face, — the little sunny child stole back 
to it. ‘‘ I have a little hope,” he admitted, “ but 
so very small! It depends on you, all of it.” 

His eyes were all aflame, but his tone was grave. 
“ You know so well how to help a man in his 
work, how to cheer him on through doubt and 
failure. Have you ever failed me ? ” 

“ I know how to let a man talk to me, perhaps,” 
she murmured. 

“ Yes, how you have let me talk to you, al- 
ways, — ever since the mission was founded ! 
Ever since that day we have talked, ever since 
that day I have brought my work to you 1 ” 

“ And I have listened ! ” 

“ And have helped ! Lucy, as you have 
helped,” she felt the sharp intake of his breath, 
as you have helped me, could you not also help 
him who shall come after me ? ” 

“Come after you? What, whom, do you 
mean, Henry ! You cannot surely mean that he, 
your Newbold, shall come after youf* 


105 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

“ You know the diocese, Lucy, as I know it — 
can you doubt that — Dr. Newbold — will come 
after me ? ” 

“ Henry, would you, could you, choose that he 
should? Ahtvyouf” 

‘‘ What choice have I ? I — I am passing on. 
The sadness is that I would have desired him to 
follow me, once.” 

‘‘Now?” 

“ Will you help him, Lucy? ” 

“ How?” 

“ Be his friend. He does not believe you his 
friend. It is the only hope.” 

“ Hope of what, Henry?” 

“ It seems to me at this moment, the only hope 
of all that I have desired.” 

Leaning back in infinite wearinessi, he gazed 
into the fire, silently. In the dusky room the fire 
glow was rosy warm about them, as they sat in 
twin chairs before the hearth. Silently the old 
footman had entered, and across the room had 
lighted and turned low a green-shaded lamp. 
Lucy sat motionless. A coal slipped down, with 
a whisper, glowed, and dimmed to ashes. 
io6 


THE CH%lST(MzAS BISHOP 

What have you desired, Henry ? ” 

The Bishop turned, ‘‘ You have had all my 
dreams,” he answered, “ so you know.” A 
strange mysticism showed upon his face, “ I have 
desired to-day, to give all that I had to the poor, 
and to the rich, to the rich ! And I could not ! ” 
At her look of puzzled curiosity, he explained 
quickly, with a passing smile, “ But that is a 
Christmas secret, between Dr. Newbold and me. 
And besides, it is all over, now, — that little 
Christmas dream.” Again a long gaze into the 
fire where one can watch one's wishes glowing, 
dying. “ And I have desired most of all, to leave 
my work to someone who would understand and 
carry it on ! ” 

“ Who could understand, Henry,” she whis- 
pered, ‘‘ your work ? ” 

He turned his head toward her, quick and 
sunny. “ You alone, perhaps, and therefore you 
will help him to understand.” 

“ How?” 

“ By giving him courage, as you have given it 
to me.” 

“ I never gave you courage.” 


107 


THE CH%IST[M<^S BISHOP 

“ Yes ! And so, let me believe, you will give 
it to him!’’ 

“Courage for what? Be explicit, dreamer!” 

“ Courage to reopen the Southside Mission, 
and to keep it open, — and every mission through- 
out the diocese! Let him know that Westbury 
stands by him there ! ” 

“ But if — ” she spoke low, “ if it doesn’t? ” 

There was a stab of pain on the Bishop’s face, 
and then bright hope, “ Let him know you do ! 
That will be enough! And besides,” he smiled, 
“ can you not make Westbury do whatever you 
wish?” 

“ I never tried,” she answered musingly, “ to 
make Westbury do anything it did not wish.” 

“ I cannot believe,” he cried, “ that it wishes 
the closing of the mission. There has been some- 
how a mistake. It cannot be. It would mean 
the going out of a lamp which you and I saw 
kindled, — it does not seem to me so very long 
ago. 

“ It is a lifetime.” 

The light died from the Bishop’s face, leaving 
on it all the cruelty of age. “Yes, a lifetime 
io8 


THE CmilSTlMzAS BISHOP 

that is over/’ for a moment his lips showed their 
palsied working, for a moment spoke an old 
man’s querulousness, ‘‘ they could not have closed 
the mission without my knowing it, if they 
had not thought me, already, laid upon the 
shelf!” 

“ Henry,” she pleaded, “ not that, please ! ” 

‘‘No, not that!” he cried, instantly himself 
and contrite, “ we pass, but the work goes on ! 
I am an old man who has somehow made a fail- 
ure of it. But I’ll try not to think of that any 
more, clouding our Christmasing. I’ll try just 
to remember I am leaving Murray Newbold and 
Westbury, the two I have loved, to you.” 

“Leaving! But, Henry, you speak as if I 
were not also old! What time have I left, for 
Newbold, for Westbury, more than you?” 

“ You will have time,” he answered, while the 
mysticism again touched his face, “ my head is 
not clear to-day, but that is one of the things I 
seem to know, that you will have time, more 
than I. Time enough to help Newbold to learn 
his own strength. He has never tried it. Time 
enough to teach him to fight. A soldier, he’ll not 

109 


THE CH%ISTm^S ‘BISHOP 

desert, — afterwards. And time enough to help 
Westbury rekindle the mission, whose death 
would mean — you and I know,” his voice fell 
and he groped a little for words, a little confused, 

the light must not die, you will have time to 
keep the light, to keep Westbury — alive. Your 
Westbury and mine! I seem to know to-day,” 
his low voice, in the twilight, was very clear, 
“ that you will have time to help the man and the 
town I have failed to help.” 

“If time were all that is needed, Henry, to 
help them ! ” 

Looking into the fire, he did not turn, answer- 
ing happily, “ Whatever else is needed you pos- 
sess, and have given to me for sixty years.” 

With the snapping of a lifetime’s tension her 
voice rang, “ Henry, stop looking into the fire ! 
For sixty years you have looked into dreams. 
Now, once, look at me! ” 

The Bishop turned. 

Her elfin laugh tinkled, “ The fairies were 
good to you, Henry, they gave you eyes that do 
not see.” 

While she spoke, slowly the Bishop saw, but 

no 


THE CHTilSrm^S BISHOP 

at first he saw only a girl's witch- face in the fire 
glow. 

“ I will make you see this once, Henry Collin- 
ton — me! You look strange, Henry! As if 
you couldn’t guess what’s coming. Neither, I 
assure you, can I. You called me Lucy Dwight 
of the long ago, — and you’ll have to take the 
consequences! I like you to look strange, for 
then you don’t look old! Look young, Henry, 
and look at me! You are looking, I believe, at 
last, with open eyes, — looking at a woman, not 
a diocese. Henry, I might say in passing that I 
did not think once, on one afternoon we both re- 
call, — but differently ! — when we talked about 
a mission, that we should still be talking about 
that mission after sixty years. You will excuse 
my changing the subject from your work for a 
few moments, then, after sixty years ! I’ve been 
a pretty good listener — take your turn ! ” 

She looked no longer at the Bishop, who 
watched her as if she were some Christmas sprite 
risen out of the red hearth. Her white old face, 
white-crowned, was touched to rose and gold by 
the fire flame. 


Ill 


THE CHTilSTiMzAS BISHOP 

‘‘ Shall I draw you a portrait, Henry, of some- 
one you have never seen? Yet it is a portrait 
on constant exhibition. It is shown to every 
guest in Westbury, — a private exhibition is 
called High Tea at Mrs. Hollister’s. People 
watch the guest when he sees the portrait ; by its 
effect he is judged. People point out that the 
portrait is valuable historically, since it combines 
inseparably the style of sixty years ago with the 
style of to-day. That is because the picture has 
been retouched so carefully from year to year to 
fit the taste of the times. So the painting is seen 
to represent the sixty-year history of a town, 
even to costume,” she flashed a white hand from 
throat to skirt of her clinging black which looked 
at first sight so fresh from a fashion plate and 
was so carefully studied to fit no decade, and no 
person, but her own. 

“ Who would ever have thought Lucy Dwight 
could have stepped into a picture and stayed there 
all her life? She did not expect to, once, but she 
made up her mind to it, later, when one day she 
looked in the glass and took stock of what was 
left to her. She was twenty then. 

112 


7HE CH%IST{M<^S BISHOP 

I am proud of the portrait, frankly. I have 
enjoyed making it. I haven’t had anything else 
to do, except, of course,” a ripple of laughter ran 
through her tone, ‘‘ to listen ! The portrait needed 
a frame, so I’ve made that, too. Your figure of 
speech was inaccurate, a while ago. I am not 
Westbury. Westbury is the frame; I am the 
portrait, the portrait of an interesting old woman, 
interesting to everybody but herself! ” 

Lucy was an artist, she knew the value of the 
pause, she knew the value of a shrug, the most 
delicate perceptible lifting of brows and shoul- 
ders, she knew the value of hands, that, out of 
periods of quiet, flickered now and then, spirit- 
white against the black shadows of her gown. 
An artist, she forgot the Bishop while she talked 
and did not look upon the change that grew upon 
his face. 

“ It is very easy to be interesting. It only needs 
that you always guess what people are going to 
say next and never let them guess what you are 
going to say next. It needs a gift for words and 
a gift for silence. It was the process by which 
I brought up my children. My children have al- 

113 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

ways known they did not know their mother, a 
course of training easier than spanking and more 
efficacious.’' She stopped a moment. Her 
clasped hands tightened, “ Yet in ultimate effect, 
at seventy-seven, a little lonely. We prefer our 
Christmases apart, my children and I.” Her 
words fell clear against a long silence following, 
‘‘ My husband, of course, spoiled the children. I 
was perfectly willing that he should; they were 
his children.” 

After a pause, the Bishop, bringing the words 
forth from far away murmured, musing. 

Fathers do spoil children, perhaps.” 

Her tone turned tense, “ I would have spoiled 
Nan ! ” then, resuming her gaze into the fire, 
upon her portrait, she continued her retrospective 
analysis, ‘‘ And I have managed the town as I 
have managed my family. What Mrs. Hollister 
says, what Mrs. Hollister does not say, about 
ministers and missions, about dinners and diners, 
Westbury waits to know, and I have never let it 
be quite, quite sure! So Westbury watches, 
watches me — but oh, not as I watch Westbury ! 
For it would be a little curious and disquieting — 
114 


THE CHTilSTDA^AS BISHOP 

if I should cease to be popular! I don’t think 
that unpopularity would exactly suit — my phy- 
sique I I am old and accustomed to sovereignty, 
even if it is, well, a bit monotonous! We were 
young and lively once, Westbury and I, but now 
we grow old and wish to be complacent and com- 
fortable, so we don’t poke at each other’s con- 
sciences. And, indeed, why should we? For 
are we not pretty good, when one stops to look at 
us ! ” Patriotism deepened her voice, “ Where is 
there another Westbury ! We have kept the heri- 
tage of our fathers! We have not grown cheap 
in Westbury ! ” Then a lighter tone, “ And how 
could we be very bad when we always have had 
you to idealize us! Ever since you were a boy! 
You came to us a stranger and we took you in, 
at once. We sometimes do take in the stranger at 
once, and sometimes never. Nowadays he must 
be presented to the portrait, and must pass that 
examination. Young Murry Newbold has never 
passed his, and he knows it. I believe I rather 
like to see him squirm, for it is not petty, it is a 
giant’s squirming, and I enjoy it because I fancy 
it has ceased to be perceptible to any eye but mine. 

115 


7HE CHTilSrCM^S BISHOP 

It is interesting to observe the effect of the air of 
Westbury on some constitutions. Your young 
Newbold would have been worth bringing up 
once, but he has never learned not to be afraid, 
and that brings it about that he has parted with 
every good quality he possesses except his brain. 
That is still with us, fortunately, for, quite be- 
tween us, in spite of patriotism, I must say there 
are not many brains in active employment in 
Westbury in these days (I’m not, of course, so 
impolitic as to say ‘ in these days ’ to anyone 
but you, Henry!). We have about half-a-dozen 
brains in Westbury capable of conversation, — 
yours and young Newbold’s and mine, I forget 
the other three ! ” Her laugh died into a thought- 
ful pause. 

“ And yet a brain for a woman is a big stupid- 
ity. But perhaps I ought not to quarrel with 
mine, for,” she drew a quick breath of intensity, 
“ it has given me all I’ve ever had ! Oh, you and I 
have had some great old talks, haven’t we, here 
by my old red fire! Brains make — at least — 
good comradeship 1 ” Her voice fell low, “ I 
sometimes wonder if there is anything better for 
ii6 


THE CHTilSTiM^S BISHOP 

— men and women — than good comradeship. 
What — what do you think, Henry ? ” But still 
she looked into the fire and not at him, and the 
Bishop did not answer. For a moment his deep 
gaze upon her wavered, went to the blackening 
window,^ — below there in the wintry garden long 
bleak stems broke aflame with wee yellow blos- 
soms, beneath them little brown Annie walked 
among the roses. 

How curiously that holly glistens, Henry ! 
Lucy’s eyes were upon the long lean hands trans- 
parent to the fire glow, then suddenly in a voice 
lingering and judicial, I really do not know 
whether it is so very interesting after all to be 
an interesting old woman ! ” 

Lucy’s hands unclasped, fluttered an instant on 
the chair arms, then lay still, ‘‘ Oh, I am bored ! 
And I have been bored for so long! It would 
astonish this town of mine to know how it bores 
me ! There is nothing new for me anywhere ! I 
know what everybody is going to say and do. If 
it were not for you, I should even know what I 
myself am going to say and do I Oh, dull, dull, 
dull, — this being old ! I wish I had something to 

117 


THE CH%lSTmzHS BISHOP 

do ! I don’t even yet feel old enough to do noth- 
ing, yet when have I ever done anything else ? ” 

The fire snapped in the stillness of the room, 
embers leaping up, the sooner to die to blackened 
ashes. Lucy’s voice grew low and vibrant. 

“ You wonder why I speak these things to-day ? 
It is your own fault, Henry, my friend! Why 
do I keep my hearth fire bright except that you 
should drop in beside it and talk to mef? It is 
quite the only thing left that is entertaining. 
And to-day you yourself threaten that ! ” Her 
voice fell low, Christmas has always been my 
day, why this time do you bring with you these 
terrible thoughts, this talk of — death! Why 
talk of it, the thinking of it is bad enough! Did 
anyone ever hear me talk of dying? Except, of 
course, my lawyer. No, when death takes me, 
he must catch me first! I shall never go forth 
to meet him with plans and preparations for the 
things that shall come after, — and why should 
you? Why must you talk of your going, speak- 
ing as if I could have an interest in your work 
without you ! Oh, Henry, why did you yourself 
bring the spectre to our Christmas fire, where I 

ii8 


THE CHlilSrm^S BISHOP 

wanted to be snug and warm! You are not 
afraid, but I — I regret to confess it, I am 1 ” 
Then her tone grew less intense, determinedly 
casual, ‘‘Yet it is curious that I should care or 
really take the trouble to be afraid! I who am 
bored to the uttermost ! The other will be at least 
a new thing! But I have never been fond of 
games of chance! A picture in a frame is dead 
enough, but a coffin is — ugh ! — slightly worse ! 
It is so ugly, this dying! Nobody can ever say 
I yielded to it before I had to — I have yielded so 
far, I flatter myself, to nothing! Yet when I 
must, I shall step into my carriage and drive off 
with my head up and my lips shut, like a lady! 
As I have lived ! ” 

She paused, momentarily conscious of his ex- 
pression, so that to the strange intentness of his 
watching face she went on, “ I never have yielded 
to the need of a confessional before; if I do so 
once in a lifetime, you really must excuse me, 
Henry! 

“Of course, for you it is different, you are not 
afraid; you are a man, and then you have your 
religion. But a woman is rarely religious, at 

119 


THE CH%lS7m<^S BISHOP 

least a woman who has not had what she wanted I 
As a thinking person, I quite envy you your re- 
ligion. It is a valuable possession, at this end of 
life. Not that I am unorthodox — who is, in 
our good old churchly Westbury? I am a good 
churchwoman, — that does not enable me to see 
through a stone wall. Oh, Henry, Henry, here 
you come to-day, looking so pale that I can’t bear 
it, and talking of going, passing on, leaving your 
work ! You have made me feel how near we are, 
you and I, to that stone wall. I am sitting here 
shivering at the strange things on the other 
side! ” 

No light but the ebbing fire and the clear green 
lamp, and somewhere outside in the darkness 
stars above the swift rush of the river. 

It is this that makes me talk. The time is so 
short, here, and over there — who knows about 
over there? One speaks out at last, I find, after 
being good for sixty years. For I have been 
good, have I not, Henry, for sixty years, — lis- 
tened and listened, helped, as you believe, your 
work? It has been a great thing to be jealous 
of so great a work! Did you really think my 
120 


THE CH%ISTm^S BISHOP 

mind was in it, that I really cared, — I ! — for 
missions, for making men over, for turning a 
town right about face! 

“ I never expected to speak out ; pictures in 
frames do not expect to speak out. Yet I might 
have known, for sooner or later everyone does 
speak out to you. I’ve been rather proud of be- 
ing the one exception. But is it not my turn? 
And yours to listen, to me, just once, at last? 
You are surprised, I suppose. I am afraid I do 
not care that you are. I had to open your eyes. 
You speak as if I existed only to carry on your 
work — it has always been like that. So I’ve 
drawn you a portrait. Do you still think, look- 
ing at it, that I am the one to give you hope, 1 1 
What do you think, Henry Collinton, of the por- 
trait of Lucy Dwight? ” 

Her strangely gleaming eyes at last met the 
Bishop’s deep gaze, profound, unfaltering. 
There was stillness, then the Bishop spoke, in 
quiet judgment on himself, My work? Yet I 
had hoped that it seemed God’s. And for sixty 
years I have thought that you loved it ! ” 

‘‘ I have loved you ! ” 


I2I 


THE CH%lSTiM<^S BISHOP 

There was no old age for them now, no past, 
no future. Beyond the room that briefly held 
them were night and the river and death. She 
was Lucy Dwight of the flickering fire flame, who 
laid bare at the last her deathless desire. The 
man she loved was God’s, was all men’s. After 
a lifetime of delicate sanity, she cried out to him 
to be for one hour hers. Then she waited. 

The singular clarity of the Bishop’s brain had 
annulled for him every other emotion. He no 
longer felt any shock of revelation. The lucid- 
ity of his thinking was like a physical sensation 
of actual daylight in the room and beyond the 
windows. He saw the past as if it had been writ- 
ten in a foreign tongue and with a new meaning, 
but he saw it as plainly as black print on white 
paper. The woman before him was one whom 
he had never known, but he read her soul, too, 
clear as a printed page. So strangely clear his 
head, it seemed to him he could have laid his 
hand on that wall of death Lucy had talked of, 
that it would have crumbled at his touch, leaving 
him standing on the other side, in this same new 
daylight, serene and unsurprised. So crystal his 
122 


THE CH%IST[M^AS BISHOP 

thoughts that words seemed to him a remote and 
frivolous medium, like a grown man’s being 
forced to rediscover his baby-lisp in order to make 
himself understood. His personal pain had be- 
come merely a matter for reflection and limpid 
analysis. Carried far on thought that ran deep 
and wide, the Bishop spoke, hardly conscious of 
his words, ‘‘ But love loves! It does not hurt ! 
You knew me and my faith in you and my hope 
through you. If you had loved me, would you 
have destroyed for me that faith and hope? 
Would you not have taken from my hand my 
boy and my town, to take care of and to help, if 
you had loved me ? ” 

They seemed to sit there as if looking on these 
words, in a silence that grew palpitant. Then 
her cry broke, “ Henry, I can be all that you have 
believed, I can promise to try to do all that you 
desire. If you ask me to do it for you! Do 
you?” 

All in that strange daylight within his brain, 
the Bishop saw the future, saw his work die with 
him. In the same white light he saw the woman 
before him whom he had never known. 


123 


fHE CH%ISTiM^S BISHOP 

Lucy waited. God’s or hers? Yet why had 
she loved him except because he had never been 
hers? The Bishop’s gaze rested upon her in a 
far tranquillity of insight. 

No.” 

He sat there, quiet as a portrait before her 
gaze, and all alone. She had desired to rouse 
him from bodily weakness, and there was about 
him now no taint of feebleness. He sat erect, 
his long hands tranquil but not flaccid. A smile 
touched his lips, so fine and firm, a man’s smile, 
not a child’s; a smile of thought in retrospect, 
neither bright nor bitter. He had believed his 
lonely life cheered by a beautiful friendship, so 
sacred that he had supposed it hallowed the 
shrines of his God, of his wife, even as he did. 
This friendship had not been what he thought 
it. Truth was well. He had no friend. There 
remained God. 

‘‘ Henry! ” 

He looked over to her with a far, alien pity. 

“ Have I lost you, Henry ? I was never mad 
before. To keep you I have been for a lifetime 
so frightfully wise! Have I lost you now? ” 

124 


THE CH%1ST[M^S BISHOP 

Involuntarily he shut his eyes, the faintest line 
was pencilled between his brows. Pain struck 
home again through all that serenity of light. 
If there was one thing Henry Collinton, the man, 
loved, it was reserve, the delicate stateliness of 
their mutual sympathy. Yet here was the naked- 
ness of a woman’s soul ! Words seemed to him 
too far away to find or utter. 

‘‘ Henry, sometimes you seem to me to see only 
God!” 

Still he sat before her, silent and motionless 
as a portrait statue, as austere and beautiful. 
His face was in profile to her. The firelight 
fell on his silver-white hair and filled the eyes 
that did not turn or see her. Still she seemed to 
him changed into a stranger. But her words 
sounded in his head, “ Sometimes you seem to see 
only God ! ” The Bishop put up his right hand 
to his brow, suddenly veiling his face from her. 
Against the strange recoil from her his quick 
prayer throbbed. So long Lucy gazed at that 
corded old hand that shut him from her that there 
grew at last on her face also, a marble sternness 
that matched his own. She was no longer beau- 

125 


THE CHTiISr{M<^S BISHOP 

tiful beneath that blighting cynicism. Behind his 
lifted hand, the Bishop did not guess his testing, 
alone with God as he sat there, praying against 
this quivering repulsion of his soul. At last 
Lucy's eyes turned from him to the fire. The 
smile of a faint scorn caught on her lips ! Scorn 
for herself? Scorn for him? Sixty years of 
loving? Was this its issue? 

Silence, except for the whispering fire. 

The Bishop dropped his hand, leaning back 
a moment in uttermost relief. From head to 
foot, he felt, all quietly, some stern tension re- 
laxed, and with it there passed away also some- 
thing of that intensely clear vision he had just 
experienced. Looking now toward that other 
chair by the fire, he knew it was no stranger but 
the old familiar Lucy seated there, his friend, and 
how tired she looked and white and lonely ! He 
must try to understand. It was very strange to 
realize it all, but step by step he must try to un- 
derstand, even though he felt again now suddenly, 
and far more certainly, the shutting in upon him 
of the vagueness and dulness of the morning 
hours. He cried out to the Friend to hold it at 
126 


THE CH%ISTmzAS BISHOP 

bay a little while that he might talk to Lucy. 
He smiled over to her sunnily. 

As she looked into his eyes that blighting scorn 
was transformed into a tremulous new beauty, 
her brooding face suddenly puckered with the 
painful tears of age. 

Henry, tell me how to live without you ! 
Give it to me this Christmas Day, that gift of 
hope ! ” 

“ I would,’’ he answered slowly, ‘‘ if I could ! 
But I haven’t been so very successful in my gift- 
giving to-day. So I don’t feel very sure of 
myself. You’ll be patient, won’t you, while I 
try to understand ? ” Slowly and humbly he felt 
his way, with wistful pauses. ‘‘ There is so much 
that is new to me, to understand.” Deep in 
thought he gazed into the past. “ You have been 
very patient with me. I see now how. of ten I 
have been self-absorbed and selfish, bringing it 
all to you, every worry. I have taken, — I see 
it now — much sympathy and given very little. 
It’s a little late, isn’t it, after sixty years, to ask 
you to excuse it ? ” He shook his head with a 
strange, sad little smile. ‘‘ How I have talked 

127 


THE CHKISTiM^S BISHOP 

to you! Always! It must indeed have seemed 
to you a long, long listening ! I am sorry ! ” 

“ But I am not sorry, Henry ! ” 

No ! his face brightened. ‘‘ For if I have 
been self-absorbed, you at least can remember 
that you have been very good to me. That helps, 
does it not ? he pleaded quickly. “ That thought 
helps a little toward cheer? For as I try to un- 
derstand, I do not seem able to look back and 
read my life without you. You have always 
strengthened me. You have never failed me.’’ 
Until to-day ? ” 

Her whisper sent a shiver of hurt along his 
lips, but in a moment he achieved steadiness, 
holding self at bay. ‘‘ That ! ” his breath caught, 
then low words that grew calm, “ But as you said, 
it is perhaps my turn now, to listen to you. It 
is only fair, as you said, that I should listen and 
see, at last.” 

“ I never meant you to see. I always knew 
what would happen if you did.” Her voice 
throbbed through the dusky room, with strange 
finality, “ And now it has happened ! ” 

His eyes met hers, crystal clear, ‘‘ Nothing has 
128 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

happened/’ he said simply ; “ I think nothing ever 
happens, does it, to friends ? ” 

There was a strange wondering relief upon her 
keen white face, as she listened for his words, 
seeing the old boyish mysticism brighten in his 
eyes. “ But let me keep on trying to understand. 
They cannot be very easy to bear, the things you 
have been telling me about, all that I have been 
so dull and slow to guess. It will never do for 
either of us to let Christmas day go out in the 
blues. The air seemed full of good cheer this 
morning; we mustn’t lose that, you and I, just 
because we are being drawn into the evening. 
You have been cheer itself to me through all 
these years ; if only I knew the word to say to you 
now ! My thoughts don’t feel very clear or man- 
ageable, but you know I want to find the right 
word! You who have always known what to 
say to me.” He fell thoughtful and silent, then 
looked up quickly, “ You see it was for that rea- 
son that I couldn’t help asking you to look after 
Murray, because I knew what you had done for 
me. I have had every hope for him, and you 
know how hard it is for me to give up a thing I 

129 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

have hoped for, — that is why I caught at your 
friendship for him as the one security now. I 
thought perhaps there would be for you the pleas- 
ure in his brain, in his strength, that I have felt. 
But no, now I see it cannot be. It would all be 
too hard on you. I know, of course,’’ he sighed, 
Murray’s faults. I’ve cared too much for him 
not to know them; that was another reason, my 
love for him, that made me want to feel that I 
was leaving him to you, to help him through — 
what lies before him. But now I see it would be 
painful and difficult for you — one man who has 
always brought you all the worry of his work 
has been enough! And even to-day I have been 
bringing it all to you still, troubling you with my 
work and worry and Murray and Westbury! 
Lucy, believe me, I never meant to be selfish with 
it ! I see at last that I have been. 

And Westbury, — shall we leave that subject 
quiet, too, as being troublesome to-day? And 
the Southside Mission and all the other missions, 
and the spirit that enkindles them, and must be 
kept alive here and everywhere — one tries to 
keep the fire alight, but one must go some day, 
130 


7HE CH%IS7iM^S BISHOP 

trusting, hoping, not knowing, for that is too 
much to ask ! I will try not to trouble you with 
all that, any more, to-day. It was a good deal, 
wasn’t it, to ask you to keep a whole town — 
alive! One of my dreams! Such incorrigible 
dreams they must seem to you. I’m afraid. I am 
always looking into dreams, you said. And per- 
haps my Westbury is all a dream, for it has al- 
ways seemed to me one of the holy places. It 
does not seem, when you talk, to be that to you. 
You see, I thought we were one in our love for 
it, — that is why I talked of leaving it to you 
— it all sounds now, doesn’t it, a little fantastic ? 
Have I always lived in fantasy then? Are you 
showing me truth at the last, Lucy ? ” 

His voice ceased, weary. His face looked 
forth from the shadow depths, worn to silver- 
white by all the years, then, even as he paused, 
hope ran across it a bright transforming hand. 

It cannot be true ! It need not be true ! 
Need it, Lucy? I seem to see — forgive me one 
more dream, — Murray with you to help him, 
still keeping Westbury the Westbury of our 
youth. Of our youth! The old customs, the 

131 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 

way of graceful living, you have kept ! And now 
to keep the spirit, the spirit of the place, its sim- 
ple godliness, its simple friendliness! It has 
seemed to me God’s ground, where He let me 
walk a little while and serve and then pass on, 
hoping! Hoping, Lucy? 

‘‘ For you, there is so much left ! ” he spoke a 
bit wistfully. “ Such vigor still and life left in 
you! It does not matter if the years left are 
few and late, if they can be so strong and beauti- 
ful ! While, as for me — ” he shook his head, 
shrugging his shoulders, smiling, ‘‘ oh, these poor 
old bodies that we wear, how they fetter and con- 
fine! Yet we mustn’t scorn them too much 
either, poor things, when they’ve done their best 
for us for eighty years ! ” 

Something in her listening face recalled him, 
“ Dear me, I am at it again ! Troubling you again 
with the things that shall come after. It was 
only that I saw before you for a moment — so 
much! I seem to see so much everywhere, to- 
day. And yet much of it is sadly jumbled. 
Your brain never seems to play these sorry tricks 
on you. You’re feeling patient still, aren’t you,” 
132 


IHE CH^ISTEM^S BISHOP 

he smiled, while I try still to remember and un- 
derstand ? ” 

Slowly keenness grew in his gaze upon her 
face, mute before him and subtle. His words 
were a little hesitant, I do not believe it is quite 
true, that figure of a portrait. It hurts us both 
to think about that portrait, because it is not true. 
Truly, I think my idea was better than that, that 
you are the spirit of the place. Yes, I prefer my 
figure of speech to yours, and so I shall keep it 
and forget yours. We have known each other 
too long to believe in that portrait, — it’s such a 
lonesome notion, somehow ! Perhaps you feel 
like a portrait yourself sometimes when you’re 
sitting alone by the fire and feeling a little down, 
as we all do sometimes. I’m afraid, but you surely 
couldn’t expect me to believe you a picture in a 
frame when for a lifetime you’ve seemed life and 
energy to me! So remember,” an instant his 
voice grew lower, ‘‘ always remember — ” the old 
twinkle showed, that I don’t believe a word of 
it!” 

He knew that her eyes, at full gaze on him, 
frankly showed all secrets, but they were secrets; 

133 


THE CH%IS7mzAS BISHOP 

he was not sure he read. Still he was trying to 
understand, while he paused for help. 

“ You did not quite mean, did you, that the 
dullness, the boredom, is all the time present with 
you? Only sometimes? It is very puzzling to 
believe ennui of you who seem so alert. You are 
very brave at concealing it, — you must know the 
remedy better than I do, for it is one of the things 
that have not been chosen for me to bear, for I 
still get up in the morning expecting new things 
to happen. I did this very day.” 

Involuntary mocking pulled at her lips. “ New 
things are happening to us both to-day! ” 

‘‘ Yes ! ” he murmured, while his face was 
shadowed, then reverting, “ To be dull every day! 
It seems to me almost the saddest thing you have 
said to me ! I wish it were not so ! I wish I had 
the right word to say for that ! ” 

He sat silent, hesitant and doubtful. 

‘‘ Henry, say out to me all that you have in 
mind to say. I need it. There are no veils 
left!” 

His face grew clear with light. 

134 


THE CHTilSTm^S BISHOP 

‘‘You are looking into dreams again she 
cried, “ but now tell me what you see ! ” 

“ What I see for you? 

“ Yes, that belongs to me now/’ 

“ I think I see for you what might be,” he be- 
gan hesitant. “ Mysteriously, there is in you 
still the power of effort together with the power 
of wisdom. It seems to me that it is like a cup 
in your hand, your influence. And if it should 
be all in vain, — I know to-day that much we de- 
sire to do must be in vain. We understand that 
together, you and I. I feel, you know, as if the 
soul of a man and the soul of a town were in 
your keeping for a little while, — if you should 
take them, might it not be that new thing you 
want? Might it not bring you joy and forget- 
ting? My work has meant that to me. And I 
know it is very lonely if one never forgets. And 
even if it were all in vain, might it not be life and 
hope to you, Lucy ? I do not want to preach any 
preachments, you know that, surely. I can only 
tell you what I have lived. Perhaps I have never 
lived in reality — I half guess it this evening, 

135 


THE CHTilSTlM^S BISHOP 

looking back, and looking forward, seeing all 
that I have not done. It isn’t very easy to grow 
old, not easy for anyone to feel the body break- 
ing beyond mending, and to see all that is un- 
finished, but I believe, Lucy, an enthusiasm is the 
one thing to keep us warm, us old ones. I’ve 
done a plentiful amount of failing, but I wish I 
could succeed in one thing now, — I wish God 
would let me give you the word of joy to-night ! ” 
It was so quiet in the old room, that low-lighted 
space, four-square, swung out upon the night. 
The Bishop’s long fingers passed slowly across his 
brow, trying to smooth away that darkness which 
seemed shutting in upon his brain. 

And might not effort new and different help 
you to forget, Lucy, that wall of death? Per- 
haps you might be so busy, so joyously busy, that 
you would come quite to the wall without seeing, 
and the gate would open so quickly that you would 
step through without waiting to be afraid. I 
wish God might let it be that way with you. Per- 
haps He will. Strange that for me death has 
always seemed easier than life, so that I’ve 
tried not to look at the thought of it too much, 
136 


THE CH%lSTiM^S BISHOP 

not because of fear, because of beauty. It is 
only lately that I have felt that God will not 
mind if I look toward the gate. I think perhaps 
he’ll excuse me now, for wanting to get home. 
They’ve been waiting for me pretty long, too, 
Annie and Nan and the baby. He must be a man 
now. I often wonder by what ways they grow 
up over there. 

“ Lucy, I wish you need not be afraid of going 
home.” 

Again the Bishop passed his hand over his fore- 
head. He felt himself growing vague, tried 
blindly to remember what he was trying to say, 
turned to her at length, appealing, with a strange 
little smile of apology. 

“ There is something I am trying to say, but 
somehow I keep losing it. Can you possibly ex- 
cuse me if you try quite hard? For I know 
you’ve told me something this afternoon that I 
ought never to have forgotten, and somehow, 
Lucy, it’s gone, it fades, it escapes me! Only it 
was something that troubled you and that I was 
trying to understand. But I can’t, I can’t re- 
member ! But I wanted to say something to help 

137 


THE CH%IST(M^/1S BISHOP 

a little, I remember that part of it. Lucy, for 
you and me, is that enough, even if I can’t re- 
member what it was all about ? 

There is just one thing I can find the words 
for, before they slip away, — you and I have had 
to walk through life alone, and yet we have 
walked together. It was because God walked 
with us that we have walked together. Lucy, 
you will remember, whatever happens, that He 
is always there? And so, that way, you see, we 
can never be so very far apart ! ” 

They are piteous, the tears of age. Lucy 
pressed them back with ivory finger-tips on each 
eyelid, her hands masking all her face. Behind 
them stretched the long past, the brief future. 
The key to the future was in her broken whis- 
per, ‘‘ After all, God was just; Annie was fit to 
love you ! ” 

But the Bishop had risen suddenly, and crossed 
the room blindly, stumbling but once. The 
crashing pain in his head left only one instinct — 
air, the street, his own house ! Instantly he must 
get there! Then sharp through his own pain 
came admonishment. He steadied himself with 

138 


THE CHTilST(M^S BISHOP 

one hand upon the mahogany table where the 
green lamp stood. It was the close of his Christ- 
mas, he remembered; would it go with no reas- 
surance ? 

The white panelled doorway behind him, he 
stood there by the low green lamp. His face 
was all longing, like a little child’s. 

Lucy, I tried ; have I given you — hope ? ” 

The Bishop’s voice was low, lower than he 
knew, and it is sometimes impossible to hear or to 
speak. It was a long time before Lucy’s hands 
dropped from a face a-quiver. She looked about, 
startled to know herself alone when she felt only 
him, everywhere. 

But quietly the outer door had closed. 


139 


PART IV 


S tars thridded the bare elm-boughs over- 
head. Always against the blackness of the 
next corner loomed a blurred ball of light, which, 
on approach, turned into a familiar street lamp. 
The broad avenue was almost deserted. From 
blurred light to light ran a space of pavement 
blessedly firm to hurrying, uncertain feet, yet 
lights and pavement seemed to multiply and 
stretch away indefinitely. But if one hurried, 
hurried on, there was someone waiting at the 
end. 

Sometimes, against the dark faces of the house- 
fronts, window-shades were rolled up, like eye- 
lids opening, on home-pictures that reminded the 
Bishop it was Christmas night. The morning of 
the day gleamed through mist like one of the 
street lamps he was passing. Faces kept form- 
ing close against his eyes and then melted again 
into gray, into black, Mrs. Graham’s and Mur- 
140 


THE CHTifSTiM^S BISHOP 

ray’s and Lucy’s, suffering, lonely faces that had 
been locked against his pleading. Now there 
only remained to get home. 

A street of black housefronts, closed upon 
good cheer within, the Bishop’s own street, any 
door of which would have opened readily to his 
need, had anyone guessed it ! But illness had left 
in his brain only a great homing instinct. He 
knew he must not stop along the way, because like 
all other men in all the world on Christmas-night, 
he, too, had his own, and there, at home, his own 
were waiting for him. For at last he knew why 
he was hurrying so, it was because Annie was 
there, at home. He might not find her below in 
the hall, but she would be upstairs, listening for 
him and waiting. He knew that when his key 
turned, he should hear her voice, liquid and sweet 
with welcome, come floating down the shadowy 
stair, ‘‘ Up here! I’m up here, Hal! ” 

Yet when at length the Bishop did press his 
key into the lock, the house was silent and the 
hallway unlighted and chilly. Still Annie’s pres- 
ence seemed all-pervasive, catching him back to 
older days, and making him, as he groped for a 

141 


THE CHTilST{M<^S BISHOP 

match and lighted the gas-jet, forget to wonder 
why Mrs. Graham had not returned or to sur- 
mise the train missed for the baby’s sake. As he 
hung overcoat and hat on a peg of the towering 
black-walnut rack, his face being reflected to un- 
seeing eyes in the glimmering mirror, the famili- 
arity of the action and the security of his own hall- 
way and open study door steadied and strength- 
ened him. He had got home safe and sound after 
all, and now before climbing up to bed and under- 
taking all the weariness of undressing, he would 
put on his old black velvet dressing gown, and 
would sit down in the dark, in the sagging old 
leather armchair, and rest a little, and look out on 
the stars in the band of night-sky stretching be- 
low the rim of the piazza roof. 

The door into the hall, slightly ajar, allowed a 
little light to enter the room, showing the seated 
figure facing the long eastward window, the black 
velvet gown sweeping from throat to foot, and 
the long pale hands stretching out on the chair 
arms from the wide black cuffs. Hair and pro- 
filed face gleamed silver-white in the gloom. 
From to time the Bishop’s right hand moved to 
142 


THE CHTUSTOA^S BISHOP 

pull the folds more closely over his knees, uncon- 
sciously, for he did not know that he was cold. 
Down below, under the rear piazza, at the grated 
iron door of the basement kitchen, the man who 
tended the furnace had set the whirring bell 
sounding again and again, but all unheeded. The 
two maids, returning, rang and knocked at all 
the doors, only to go away, baffled. The Bishop 
heard no sounds from without. 

Near the Bishop’s left hand, the corner by the 
window where the Friend was standing always 
harbored Annie’s work basket. It stood on 
three bamboo legs, an ample, covered basket, in 
which the old darning cotton was still, as long 
ago, a little tangled. Looking toward that little 
workstand the Bishop remembered that it was 
Annie he was sitting up to wait for. She was 
coming in very soon. Or was it Nan he was 
awaiting ? Or someone else ? 

The flowing lines of the Nazarene’s talith 
melted into the folds of the long curtain close to 
which He was standing. He was looking forth, 
together with the Bishop, on the Bishop’s town, 
where he had failed. Too tired to think about 

143 


THE CH%IST(M^S BISHOP 

that any more, the Bishop only knew that the 
Friend understood failure. The little quick up- 
ward smile showed like a spent child’s, too tired 
to do anything but trust. 

Yet the Bishop’s thought, in retrospect upon 
his Christmas Day, was strangely clear, as he 
looked out on that familiar picture, white stars 
above in the night-blue and, below, the blackness 
gemmed by ruddier earth-lights. So dark now, 
yet so bright with sun and hope in the Christmas 
morning! His thought went out to the unseen 
houses, each holding a little group of his friends, 
following them to the bend of the river until his 
fancy walked once more among the tenements 
where he knew the brown babies with their great 
black eyes, his friends, too. 

Of late he had so often looked out on his little 
city wrapped in night, but not as now. Before, 
he had been thinking of his Christmas gift, the 
House of Friendship, which should, in the terms 
of some strange symbolism, give back to West- 
bury the beauty it had once given him. But this 
was not to be. He was quite clear about it all, 
and quiet. It was night now, and he had not 
144 


THE CH%lS7m^S BISHOP 

done any of the things he had meant to do in 
the morning. He had not even gone to church. 
God’s chalice ! He had not been able on this 
Christmas Day to offer it to one soul in all his 
Westbury I 

All day long his hands had been baffled of 
their gift-giving. That was sometimes God’s 
way, the Bishop knew, as he leaned back in this 
strange, expectant peace. Suddenly, sharp as 
paintings torch-lit against a gloom, there passed 
before him again, as on the black street, those 
three faces out of his Christmas Day : Mrs. Gra- 
ham’s, black hate scarcely lighted by love for that 
little Christmas baby; Newbold’s, storm-tossed 
upon a struggle that gave no presage of victory ; 
and Lucy’s, seamed with the subtleties of a lone- 
liness that could not see the only help for lonely 
living. These three faces were, God in his mys- 
tery had showed him to-day, only the S)mibols of 
his larger failure, in his town, in his diocese. 
His little garden space hedged in for him out of 
all the world, he had tended it with much love 
but with little wisdom. So God would have to 
take care of it now. 


145 


THE CH%ISTDA^S BISHOP 

Sharp again, just as the three faces had flashed 
forth out of darkness and passed close against 
the Bishop’s eyes, came other visions and pic- 
tures, those of his Christ-child poem of the morn- 
ing. Only now it was no sacred city of the 
Orient, but the dumb and sleeping streets of 
Westbury where the Child went wandering. As 
before, he knocked, all eager, and again opening 
doors flashed ruddy on the night, to close again 
with a low dull sound. On and on he fled, a 
glimmering baby-form blown on the winter wind, 
until the Bishop’s eyes closed wearily from fol- 
lowing. He opened them with a twitch of pain, 
and there without, close against the dark sash the 
Child was standing, not sad at all, but sweet and 
smiling. Then instantly this picture, like the 
others, faded, and again the Bishop knew himself 
with the familiarity of unnumbered silent nights 
like this one, seated alone in his study, quiet with 
the peace of the Friend. Through all the soli- 
tary hours of all the solitary years, the Friend 
had always stood there, clear-figured, by the east- 
ward window. 

The night was wearing on as the Bishop sat, 
146 


THE CH%IST[M.AS BISHOP 

waiting. Very soon they would be there. He 
remembered that he had been looking for them all 
the day. It would be very cosy to have them 
coming in on Christmas night — his own ! 

But at the chiming of those two words through 
his brain, thought sharply asserted itself, keen 
and crystalline in retrospect. As a man brings 
all his life to God at the end, the Bishop looked 
into the Nazarene’s eyes from the picture of the 
little city that belonged to them both, whispering. 

But those out there have been my own.” 

Presently the silvered head sank back in the 
sudden drowsiness that falls upon the very old, 
but even as he yielded to it, the Bishop’s eyelids 
flickered an instant. He looked again toward the 
Friend, forever clear against the curtained win- 
dow. He lifted his right hand a little, like a 
child, not knowing how confident it was. Too 
tired and sleepy to be conscious of anything at 
all but that Presence that filled all the room, the 
Bishop murmured happily, And I have not been 
lonely ! ” 

The Bishop did not actually doze off, however, 
but sat resting quietly in the peaceful borderland 

147 


7HE CH%IS7[M^S BISHOP 

of sleep. The threadbare house that harbored 
him was very silent. From time to time, across 
his dim worn face, fancies flickered, bright as a 
caged bird’s dreaming. Out of the engulfing 
vagueness of his brain, Annie came to him, the 
child-woman of long ago. His boat was rocking 
at the little pier waiting, as she came tripping 
down the terraces. He saw the upward sweep 
of the round young arms as she opened the high 
wrought-iron gate. She wore a white muslin 
sprigged with yellow, wide-skirted and flounced. 
The live brown of her hair was swept back into a 
net. Her face was soft olive and rose, her lips 
parted, and the eyes grave and steady, a child’s. 
On either side about the high black portals of the 
gate pulsed and flamed wee yellow roses. Slim, 
sturdy boy that he was, something had shaken 
him in that moment like a tossed leaf. Even 
now, old and dim in his chair, it was not the sense 
of her lips beneath his sudden ones that he re- 
membered; it was that there in that instant he 
saw her eyes change forever to a woman’s. And 
the boy, all a-quiver with strong youth as he was, 
he, too, in that moment had changed into a man, 
148 


THE CHTiISTE\f^S BISHOP 

a man forever reverent before the mystery he 
had wakened. The Bishop’s hand tightened on 
the chair arm, for he remembered that at last, at 
last, Annie was coming back to him. He was 
waiting for her to come in. 

Again thought shifted many a year; and he sat 
expectant of a knock, light, imperative, merry. 
Nan’s evening knock. The door swung in and 
she entered, that tall, slim girl of his. She wore 
a white dress girt about in the absurd panniers 
of the eighties. Her dark hair was looped low 
at her neck. She had her mother’s brooding 
brown eyes lightened by her father’s twinkle. 
She sank on a hassock at his knee, folding her 
long figure up in a trick of grace she had. 

“ Ready to hear a secret, father ? ” 

As on so many, many evenings, he was ready 
to hear a secret, the secrets a motherless girl may 
tell to her father. The Bishop remembered still 
one secret she had told him which had seemed to 
be a fine silk thread cutting his heart in two, for 
the father, listening, knew that the man Nan 
loved was not worthy of her. Then a tiny smile 
touched the worn old lips, a smile of pride, half- 

149 


THE CH%lSTm^S BISHOP 

jealous, at the memory that it was her father, not 
her husband, that Nan had first told about her 
little baby. The father’s blood, even now, beat 
faster at the thought of that remembered hope. 
Then again he saw the wee waxen form on Nan’s 
arm. But instantly mysterious glad expectancy 
swept that sight from him as he recalled that even 
now he was listening for Nan’s tap-tap at his 
study door. Nan, once more coming to tell him a 
secret, a secret blithe, unguessed. 

The house had ceased to be silent; there were 
movings, stirrings, voices, through it. They 
seemed to be without, on the stairs, and above, 
in the upper rooms. There were people on the 
stairs, mounting up and up on jocund feet. The 
Bishop heard it perfectly clear now, Annie’s voice 
from his bedroom overhead, Up here, I’m up 
here, Hal!” 

But listen! There on the hallstair, that was 
surely a child he heard now ! It was little Nan, 
chuckling and chattering as she climbed. It was 
her old merry challenge to her father to be out 
and after her as up she scampered. Yet no, that 
was not Nan, that merry call was a boy’s, a 

150 


THE CH%IST(M,AS BISHOP 

baby's, — it was Nan’s baby-boy, who had just 
learned to go upstairs. The Bishop heard the 
small ecstatic feet, the slap of exultant little palms 
on each step achieved. And, like little Nan, the 
brave wee grandson meant the Bishop to follow 
him, as on he scurried, up and up, where the stairs 
were multiplied, were mounting, ever higher, 
higher. 

Again the sounds on the stair changed to other 
footfalls, lighter, firmer, surer, but like the oth- 
ers, very glad ; fleet and pattering, pattering, 
spirit-light, the steps of the little Christ-Child, 
going home. 

A slight tremor ran through the length of the 
form seated there, silver and black. Suddenly 
all mist was wiped from the Bishop’s brain, leav- 
ing it clear. The Nazarene laid his hand on the 
window-sash, as if opening a door. “Rise!” 
He said, “ Let us go forth into the morning.” 

Beyond the silent house, Westbury slept on, 
the star-lit, throbbing city, not knowing. The 
deep sleep of the earliest dawn held those three 
faces of the Bishop’s failure, sleep of victors, 
spent with struggle. In the morning they would 

151 


THE CH%lSTiM^S BISHOP 

awaken, the three the Bishop had loved, to know ! 
In the morning all Westbury would awaken, to 
know, — that there was only one way to love him 
now! 

In the house of each heart that must perforce 
hold his memory like a shrine, there could never 
be any chamber for hate. Through the gift of 
his three years’ presence should the grandmother 
hold to her breast her baby’s baby, until love, 
overflowing, should enfold that black-mooded 
woman, her son’s wife, and both, being mothers, 
should learn the way of peace by guiding there 
the little feet of a little child. This, himself all 
unwitting, should be the Bishop’s immortal gift. 

Even so, by divine largess of life given to life, 
should Murray Newbold become the Bishop’s 
spiritual son. Henceforth, always — instant, in- 
sistent — should the Bishop’s presence seem near 
him at every turning-point, compelling, as in the 
darkened study on that last day of all their days 
together. 

And the woman who had loved the boy, Henry 
Collinton, she, too, through his gift of a beauty 

152 


THE CH%IST[M^S BISHOP 

steadfast to the end, should in the last brief years 
find ease of her lifelong hunger. In unspoken 
kinship of loneliness must they draw near now, 
the man and the woman who had walked closest 
to him, to rear together his last wish. Deathless 
as dream should rise the House of Friendship, 
for, passing, the Bishop had found the way to 
give himself. It is only a little city where he 
offered the chalice of his spirit, and only a little 
space his whole bishopric, yet all the world is 
richer for the gift of his Christmas soul. 

Westbury shall know now, — shining old face 
beneath the shabby hat, stooping old shoulders 
beneath the worn cape overcoat, spent old feet 
that walked these careless streets — Westbury 
shall know now, their Bishop, passed from them, 
their own forever. 

Yet these things the Bishop did not know, for 
God was showing him more beautiful things, 
even as all his life He had been showing him the 
things that are more beautiful than fulfilment. 
All happily he sat there in his old study chair, 
looking toward the eastward window. 


153 


THE CH%ISTm^AS BISHOP 

His face had changed to a beauty of light. 
Gently on the chair arms rested the lean old 
hands, as very softly the gray room brightened 
at the coming of the dawn. 


THE END 











i 



% \ 





